


The Long Shadow Of Sherrinford

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Basically just that: a love story :), Big Gay Love Story, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Coming to Terms with the Past, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Injury, Injury Recovery, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Not Beta Read, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Reappraisal, Revenge, Sappy, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Surgery, Virgin Mycroft, Virgin Sherlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: After Sherrinford, Mycroft gets attacked. Sherlock, horrified, goes into his brother's house and finds something that changes everything.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about medical stuff. Please be tolerant with all the mistakes I make; I did google a lot about it but... Anyway, the injury is really just the reason for the brothers to get closer. Don't expect it to be overly realistic, please :) This is fiction.
> 
> This is the first time I start posting an unfinished story. Updates might not be as regular as usual. Kudos and comments are love :)

221b Baker Street smelled of freshly painted walls and new furniture. A baby named Rosie was gurgling happily while playing with her new doll, Sandra. John Watson was typing away on his laptop, his brow wrinkled in concentration.

The man named Sherlock Holmes didn’t notice anything of this.

He was sitting in his brand new armchair, not nearly as comfortable and comforting as the old one that had not survived the explosion. He was staring into nothingness. Brooding in this position for hours.

What was bothering him was that he didn’t know what bothered him. Something was up. Something was coming.

A premonition. Mycroft would have laughed about it. Not that his brother ever laughed. Probably now less than ever.

He had been okay after being freed from the cell in Sherrinford, Lestrade had assured Sherlock. He had been brought home, in one piece, without a scratch. His usual composed self. And he hadn't shown much discomfort when their parents had gotten at his throat for deceiving them all these years. He had been annoyed and feeling defensive, yes. But he had not seemed shaken. Two days later he had been sitting next to them in Sherrinford when Sherlock and Eurus had played for them. His face his usual mask of coolness. Perhaps a hint of relief that the parents had forgiven him. Apart from this, he seemed to be like before.

But Sherlock had seen him shaken and shocked by Eurus' ruthless actions on this horrible day three weeks ago. Desperate about the deaths he had to witness. Then calm and composed when he had offered his life so Sherlock wouldn’t have to shoot John, trying to manipulate him in his usual cunning way. He had accepted his fate.

The fate Sherlock would have never brought upon him. Never in this life would he have fired at either John or Mycroft. He had pretended to play Eurus' game just to shock her with pointing the gun at his own head.

And Mycroft had not realised it – he had really believed Sherlock would murder him.

What did that say about his state of mind? His famous deduction abilities?

And what did it say about Sherlock – Mycroft believing he would pull the trigger without a hint of remorse so he could walk off with John?

It made Sherlock feel… bad. Disappointed. Guilty. All the bad feelings he had no use for.

But in the end - they'd been estranged for all his adult life. How should Mycroft truly know him? Why should he have expected anything else from Sherlock than the worst?

The worst hadn't happened. They had all come out of there alive and unharmed. More or less.

Then why had Sherlock such a bad feeling now? A feeling, not a deduction. He didn’t know if he could trust it; he didn’t even know what it meant at all. He had never been good with feelings.

## *****

It had been a long, hideous day for Mycroft Holmes. Which was nothing new, of course.

For twelve hours non-stop he had been sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen, connecting the dots nobody else saw. News from all over the world were coming in without a break, and it was his brain's job to make sense of it, to draw conclusions, to identify threats, to memorise seemingly insignificant but possibly important facts for later use. His boss, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, often said that he was a human computer, sounding proud – as if Mycroft was his creature in some way, as if he was the one to thank for the phenomenon that was Mycroft Holmes.

For nearly twenty years he'd been doing this tremendously demanding work. And the tall, middle-aged man with the fine black hair and the piercing blue eyes was getting more and more exhausted. What hadn't been a problem with twenty-five or thirty-five was getting increasingly difficult with forty-four – well, forty-five in less than a week.

Despite his inhuman work schedule, he did a tremendously good job but he couldn’t do it perfectly as it was humanly impossible. As a perfectionist, he was the first to be hard on himself if he had missed something, if something he had not seen or neglected as unimportant backfired and people got hurt. He didn’t need a disappointed looking PM, an upset Lady Smallwood or a whining Sir Edwin to be devastated behind his mask of indifference he had put on and perfected years ago.

And now something else was weighing on his soul. The soul he would always deny to even possess.

Eurus and her deadly game. The people he had seen dying. Not being able to stop her. Their deaths followed him into his dreams. The guilt. The shame of having escaped while they had lost their lives, guilty or not.

Every two hours he was checking on his mad sister's security now. Watching the video feed for a few minutes. Calling the people who had taken over the prison after taking out the compromised staff. Emailing them, noting down how long they needed to respond.

And the worst hours were when Sherlock went there to play the violin with her. That was all they did. Their sister still didn’t talk and would probably never do it again.

If they were lucky.

When Sherlock was there, Mycroft let everything else lie. He didn’t pay attention to the music, as beautiful as it might be. He just stared at the feed, hardly blinking, until Sherlock stored his Stradivarius and left – safe and unharmed. He had jeopardised Sherlock's and John Watson's life foolishly when he had brought them there, fully and stupidly believing that Eurus had never left Sherrinford and couldn’t be the one they were talking about. He would not endanger his brother again.

Why did Sherlock keep returning there? Mycroft did understand that the Holmes parents wanted to make up for the times they had not been able to help their daughter – not that they could have helped her now or back then, nobody could have. She was beyond any help and had always been. Eventually, they would understand that.

But Sherlock had to know that already, must have known it from the start. And still he went there every few days.

Mycroft could have forbidden it. But he didn’t. If his brother was determined to try to make a connection with her, he wouldn’t hinder him, no matter how senseless it was.

He didn’t hate his sister. She simply didn’t know it any better.

Mycroft knew that, apart from things like commitment and loyalty to the crown and shame and guilt and all these basic sentiments, he was unable to feel like others did – no love, no care. Not for anybody else than Sherlock, his little brother, the one person he would have given his life for. He knew he didn’t feel like this for others because they weren't worth it.

Sherlock was very emotional these days, self-acclaimed 'high-functioning-sociopath' or not. He felt a lot for his friends, so much that he had even killed for them without a hint of remorse, showing his indeed existing sociopathic side. A very selective sociopath after all, his little brother.

But Eurus… Sherlock might think she had done this all to get his attention, to be saved by him. But Mycroft knew it better. She didn’t want to be saved, knowing it wasn't possible. She had just wanted to play… And she had not stopped manipulating his brother, playing the desperate little girl, making him return to the prison. It was all just a game. Mycroft knew it but obviously Sherlock didn't. He was feeling responsible for her. His good heart again… Eurus didn’t feel anything but boredom and satisfaction. She was, plainly spoken, a monster. Not that he spoke to anyone about her. He didn’t talk to anybody about anything not work-related after all.

Finally he gave up staring at his screen when the columns before his eyes started to not make any sense at all anymore. He had told Anthea to go home hours ago. He sent a text to the driver, shut down his computer, slipped into his coat, gathered his briefcase and his umbrella, and left the Cabinet Office with steps heavy from exhaustion. A car would bring him home to rest for a short period of time, interrupted by glancing at reports from his home laptop, and if he was very lucky, he would fall into a dreamless sleep for a few peaceful hours before the circle would begin again the next morning.

## ***

He was walking through the clear, cold air, the path enlightened by two lamps. The car was ready, as always. The driver wouldn’t get out to open the door for him; Mycroft had told him years ago it wasn't necessary. The day he couldn’t open the door of a car himself anymore would be the day when he would finally retire…

He was about twenty metres away from the black limousine when someone stepped into his way. Mycroft stopped, stunned but not frightened.

It was a woman, grey-haired, old, at least two heads smaller than the tall man. She had her hand left clamped around a shabby purse and she was dressed in an old-fashioned dusky pink Chanel suit. Over that she was wearing a once elegant coat and she had her right hand in the coat pocket.

Her lips were trembling and her eyes looked as if she had cried a thousand tears over weeks. She wasn't crying now though.

“Mr Holmes,” she said in a raspy, toneless voice.

Mycroft was feeling weird. Numb. Slow.

Nobody knew who he was outside his circle. The public didn’t know he existed. Didn’t know a job like his even existed.

“Yes,” he said, not knowing how else to respond. Who was she? He was sure he had never seen her before.

She nodded. “You have no idea who I am.”

“Mr Holmes, is everything alright?”

Mycroft turned his head to see a guard standing at the door. “Yes. It's fine.”

The man didn’t look convinced but he nodded. He didn’t go back into the building though but kept his place, standing straight with crossed arms.

Mycroft focused on the woman in front of him again. “What can I do for you, Ma'am?”

She smiled but it wasn’t a happy smile. Nor a friendly smile. “That’s a good question, Mr Holmes. You're very smart, they say.”

“Who told you about me?” It was a silly question. Much more important was – who was she and what did she want?

She ignored the question anyway. “There's something you could do. Only that you can't.”

 _She's crazy_ , Mycroft thought. But he knew this wasn’t the right word. Why was his brain so slow? He felt as if he were totally out of his depth. As if he was standing beside himself, watching the oh-so-clever man struggling like a… goldfish.

“Find that funny, right?”

“No. I just thought of… Never mind.” He could also hear himself talking as if he had left his body.

“You could give her back to me. But of course you can't.”

“Sorry?” Mycroft knew he had to focus. This wasn’t some senseless rambling of an insane old lady. This was important.

“My Carol-Anne.”

“Carol-Anne?” he repeated like an idiot. The name rang a bell. But Mycroft Holmes, the man with the perfect memory, didn’t know which one.

“Forgot her name, have you? The man who doesn't forget anything? Or have you never bothered to find out in the first place?” Still she didn’t raise her voice.

But something started crawling up his spine. A feeling of danger.

He could have stepped back and called the guard. He knew the man was armed. The driver had left the car now, looking over to them with a confused look. He was armed as well.

But Mycroft kept standing as if nailed to the spot.

“You killed her,” she said in a tone as if she was talking about the weather. “My girl. David and you killed her.”

David… The governor of Sherrinford… And his wife Carol-Anne, the woman Mycroft had been supposed to save by shooting her husband. The woman his mad sister had shot when neither Mycroft nor John had had the courage or the coldness to pull the trigger.

He closed his eyes. “I… I'm sorry.”

“You are?” She didn’t sound very interested.

“Yes. I don't think… I think my sister…” He broke off, as if it made a difference. Someone had told her what had happened in Sherrinford as they had managed to keep the disaster out of the news by 'convincing' the media bosses behind closed doors that what had happened wasn’t of any interest to the British population. Probably one of the guards who'd been fired for their failures had told her. She obviously knew everything. No need to hide his relation to Eurus towards her.

But what would it help if he told her that he was sure Eurus would have killed her daughter anyway, even if he or the doctor had done the deed. She wouldn’t have let her go.

In the end it _was_ his fault. Not John Watson's. To some extent not even Eurus'. She was a monster without a conscience. He had known that for a very long time. He should have made sure she was secured, that she wasn't able to play such a game, leave the prison whenever she wanted, use people like toys, kill just because she wanted to.

 _'I will not have blood on my hands'_ he had said to Sherlock when he had refused to shoot this woman's son-in-law. But in fact he had it anyway.

“You killed her,” she said again, and then her hand moved and Mycroft saw something shiny and then he heard two men shout something from two different directions before he tumbled backwards after feeling a sharp, almost burning pain under his ribcage.

Before he cringed at the shots that made the woman before him twitch and fall over, the knife dropping from her hand, he saw the blood pouring out of his stomach.

Then he was held by strong arms.

“Hold on, sir. The ambulance will be right there.”

Two thoughts whirled through his mind before everything got dark.

_* It was my fault *_

_* Sherlock *_

## *****

Sherlock was rubbing his wet curls with a towel when he heard his phone ringing in the living room. And then John's voice answering it.

And the bad feeling he had seemed to wash off with the hot shower came back with full force. Wet and naked as he was, he stormed out of the bathroom.

He saw John's face when he let the hand with the phone sink.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his voice quiet.

“Mycroft. He was stabbed.”

Sherlock nodded. “Which hospital?” He'd deduced from John's face and tone his brother wasn't dead.

“A private clinic I never heard of. Seems his spleen was damaged. Massive internal bleedings. He's being operated as we speak.” John was giving the facts like the doctor he was.

“I'll get dressed.”

“I'll call the cab and ask Mrs Hudson to come up for Rosie.”

Sherlock nodded and stalked into his bedroom.

With every step he made the reality hit him harder.

His brother had been attacked.

Badly injured.

But Mycroft would be fine.

His brother wouldn’t die.

Sherlock wouldn’t fucking let him.

## ***

John had problems to keep up when Sherlock was racing through the hospital corridors. The small clinic was located in a very secure, very nondescript building near The London Dungeon.

Anthea was awaiting them before the operation theatre. Her face was a mask of concern.

“How is he?” Sherlock asked when they had reached her.

“He's lost a lot of blood. They are trying to save the spleen. So far, anything can happen.” Her tone was flat and Sherlock sensed her deep worry.

“Who did that and where is he?”

“It was the mother of the governor's wife. Blaming him for her death. Aimed for his heart of course but she was a lot shorter than he and instead scraped his ribcage and injured his spleen. She was shot from two sides the second after. Dead before she hit the ground.”

“Where were they before?” Sherlock thundered, his deep voice echoing through the narrow corridor.

“I was told your brother didn’t want them to interfere. He had no idea she had a knife.”

“He's slipping!”

Anthea gave him an indulgent look. “He was exhausted. More than ever. Not only very busy. He always was. But also deeply shaken about your sister's actions. Extremely worried whenever you went to the prison. Nobody might disturb him then; he was watching you every second.”

Sherlock tumbled. This had happened because of _him_?

Anthea laid her hand on his arm. “He's strong. He'll survive. He knows he can't leave you. Because he's afraid what Eurus could do to you. Or anyone else.”

So he was both the reason for Mycroft's inability to judge this situation correctly and for fighting for his life?

It was too much. His knees gave way.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, his hand grabbing Sherlock's arm hard, holding him up. “As soon as he gets out, we'll talk to his doctors. No reason for crossing this bridge now.”

“Bad choice of words, John.”

“You know what I mean. He's not a pet! Come, sit down.”

“No. I can't.” His entire body, not even mentioning his mind, was vibrating with unspent energy. He was rather disappointed the attacker had been taken care of already.

“You must. For him. There is nothing you can do now but calm down and wait until we know more.”

Sherlock let himself be guided to some hospital chairs that were as uncomfortable as they looked.

It was the longest hour of his life. And when the doctor came to speak to them, telling them that they had been able to stitch the spleen together and stop the internal bleeding and that Mycroft had a ninety-percent chance of surviving the night, and if he did, a nearly hundred- percent chance of fully recovering, he almost got sick from feeling relieved.

He, John and Anthea left the hospital for the night after Sherlock was allowed to have a glance at his brother, still completely off to the world and looking so pale and small in his wide bed. This wasn't the mighty politician, the intimidating man of brilliance, arrogance and power. This was a broken man reduced to the basics of humanity, despite the encouraging words of his doctor looking as if he was on the verge of dying, and Sherlock could hardly look at him. He knew Mycroft would hate it if he knew Sherlock had seen him like this.

He told John he needed time for himself and sent the doctor home to his daughter. John didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone at all but Sherlock assured him it was fine. He didn’t plan to do anything stupid. With the attacker being dead, what should that have been anyway?

This was a _danger night_ , yes. For both Holmes brothers. But there was no point in numbing himself. This was something he had to face with a sober mind.

After running around in the dark city without a plan for half an hour, he took a cab to his brother's house, not knowing why but feeling this was the place where he needed to be now.

Sentiments. Mycroft had been right; he had always known that. They were horrid.

Caring _was_ not an advantage.

But Sherlock had long ago accepted the fact that he, in fact, cared – for John and Rosie. For Mrs Hudson. For Lestrade. For Molly Hooper. For his parents. In a strange way even for his sister. And, of course, for his big brother.

## ***

Sherlock could have counted the times when he had been in this house on one hand. He had nicked a key years ago. Mycroft had certainly known that even before Sherlock had sent Wiggins' people in to scare him, but he had never mentioned it, let alone demanded it back. Would he have if the Eurus-affair hadn't taken all his attention since then?

Sherlock regretted it now. How great it had felt at this point – seeing his smug brother so distraught, so confused. Now he felt disgusted by himself. He and John had given Mycroft such a hard time. And he had always known that his brother wasn’t as tough as he pretended to be – probably even towards himself.

He stood still in the silent corridor for a time that seemed to draw out forever. What a strange house this was. So empty and these creepy paintings at the walls. Suits of armour. Wood.

In the end he went into Mycroft's living room, falling into an armchair.

His heart was heavy. It had been for a long time now. When had things started to become so difficult? With his faked death, probably. Deceiving John for all this time. His lonely years of chasing Moriarty's network. His return, finding a John who had moved on and had reacted violently to him. Getting acquainted to Mary. The wedding. The Magnussen case. The shot wound. The killing of the blackmailer. Saying goodbye to John only to return. Becoming a part of John's family. Mary's death and John's attack. John saving him from Culverton Smith. And then Eurus. So much had happened over such a short period of time. Too much to properly process it.

And Mycroft had always been in the shadows, watching over him, ready to step in if Sherlock needed help, no matter how often Sherlock mocked or rejected his attempts at having a better relationship. He had known it but he hadn't paid any attention to him – if it wasn't to manhandle him for his own purposes. He had not even said goodbye to _him_ before entering the plane – but he had taken for granted that Mycroft would get him out before his six months undercover would be over if he didn’t manage it on his own. He had _always_ taken for granted what Mycroft did for him. And after Sherrinford, all he had thought about had been Eurus and how he could be a brother for her. He had not even wasted one thought on how Mycroft, the brother she had Sherlock wanted to kill, would feel about that. How worried he had to be. How hurt…

What a lousy brother he had been. And now it could be over. There could still be complications. And if this woman had not missed his brother's heart, Mycroft would be dead now, and he would have died being convinced that Sherlock had never cared about him.

And Sherlock's heart would be shattered.

## ***

Later he wasn't sure what had made him make the decision to go into Mycroft's home office to rummage in the drawers of his desk – something he and John hadn't managed to do due to the urgency of their task of preparing the house for the clown and the dwarf. Another premonition? Or the hope to find something, anything that would prove that Mycroft still felt anything positive for him, apart from the responsibility for a younger sibling that had always struggled with his life.

He didn’t have to look very far. The room was as neat as it was to be expected. No pictures on the desk, nothing that looked remotely personal.

And in the top drawer he found a thick folder with papers, on top of them an envelope, saying it was Mycroft's last will. He put it aside for a moment and looked at the stuff beneath it. All the papers for the house and the bank accounts. Bills of sales for the paintings – and Sherlock gasped when he saw one was worth nearly half a million pounds. At least that was what Mycroft had paid for it ten years ago. Knowing his brother, it would certainly be worth a lot more now. Mycroft had listed everything he owned, and it was a lot. His brother was a very wealthy man, which was no surprise to Sherlock. He worked all day in a very high position and he didn't have many expenses apart from his bespoke suits, fine food and even finer whiskey. No car, no vacations, no lovers to make presents to... Mycroft lived like a monk, apart from the odd drink. Just like Sherlock, actually…

He browsed through all the stuff, not knowing what he was looking for and yet knowing there would be something, and then, right at the bottom of the pile of papers he found a sealed letter.

 _To Sherlock – to be opened only in the case of my death_ was written on the precious envelope in his brother's beautiful handwriting.

He stared at the words for a long time, and then he took a deep breath and looked at the last will, which was stored in a loosely closed, plain white envelope, dated two weeks ago – as if Mycroft had had a premonition, too… One that would hopefully prove him wrong...

He swallowed when he saw that Mycroft had decided to bequeath all his possessions, everything he had listed in the tons of papers, to him. The money, the house, the paintings… Well, who else, after all. Mycroft didn't have any friends and he didn't care in the least about their other relatives – aunts, uncles, cousins... Their parents were old and Mycroft had obviously not expected to be outlived by them or thought they didn’t need his riches. And Eurus… She would be taken care of anyway. Not much opportunity to spend money in a prison cell… And of course Mycroft had no reason to give her anything.

No more visits in Sherrinford for Sherlock. There was no question about it. Completely not because of this last will. But because she didn’t deserve his attention. And his brother deserved a lot better than what he had ever gotten from Sherlock… It had taken him long enough to realise it.

He stored the testament along with the other papers in the folder just how he had found them – everything except for the letter.

Of course he knew he had to respect what Mycroft had written on the silky, grey envelope. He knew he had no right to read this now. He wouldn’t be able to break the seal without Mycroft seeing it once he returned to this house, and he would. He would kill Sherlock when he found out he had disrespected his will and read it. The best decision was to put the letter beneath all the other papers where he had found it.

And then he ripped the envelope open, took out several pieces of precious paper and started to read. And later he wouldn’t be able to recall all the feelings he'd had during the course of reading his brother's handwritten words as there had been so many. So many words and so many feelings.

## ***

_Brother,_

_Dear brother,_

_Sherlock,_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Little Brother,_

_I've been sitting at my desk for three hours now, having started this letter countless times, and still I don't even know how to address you. Which kind of says it all, doesn't it?_

_I've been debating with myself – well, with whom else? – if I should write you at all. Would you even care? Would you think it's not worth your time reading this?_

_Be assured – you are under no obligation to do that. When you are holding this letter in your hands, I'll be dead. I will never find out if you read it or not, obviously._

_But I have to continue as if you were reading so…_

_I better just start somewhere, right?_

_After Sherrinford I rewrote my last will, just to update everything. Of course you have always been the one to inherit everything. It will give you a reasonable financial cushion for the rest of your life._

_You can do with my possessions as you wish of course. Move into the house with Doctor Watson and his child, or sell it, or burn it. The latter would be a shame though. I know you find it old-fashioned and pretentious but for me it has always been a nice place to live. Well, I didn’t see much of it thanks to my work hours. In any way there is a lot of room for a child to grow up in. I do hope you will make good use of it. And of the money._

_I won't say: 'don't buy drugs from it'. I know you won't. There were some throwbacks lately but they were obviously rather for a purpose. You don't need numbing yourself anymore. You've found your place in the world._

_I wasn't always happy about your choices. Well, as if you didn’t know that. But I'm referring mostly to John Watson. I know you are very fond of him and see him and certainly his child as your family. He has for sure saved you in many ways. But he has also shown a behaviour towards you that was deeply disturbing to me. If I hadn't known how much he and his late wife meant to you, I would have taken care of them. I know you never took my advice. But perhaps you might consider this one: don't let anyone violate you. For no reason, never. You are better than that._

_God, I'm just scribbling away without a plan. I have to focus or you will never read this until the end. If you do it at all._

_I know you've never liked me since you've grown up. I don't know when it happened or how, but all at once the boy who used to cling around my neck didn’t want to talk to me anymore. He hardly looked at me anymore. Was it because I left home so early? Was it the age gap? Have I been too overbearing already back then? Was it just puberty and rebellion? Whatever it was – I consider it the biggest failure of my life that I never managed to reach you anymore. That I lost my little brother. I don't tell you this to make you feel guilty. Well, it is not very probable that you do._

_All I really want to say with this is: I never stopped caring for you. I never stopped wishing we could be close again. All I can hope for now is that you'll remember me in a rather fond way. In the seconds before your flat was blown up, I had the feeling that something had changed. You, telling me you'd approved of my 'Lady Bracknell'. It meant a lot to me. Not only your words – which you actually took back later – but the tone in which they were delivered. This moment was… special to me._

_Do I have to mention Sherrinford? The moment when you were pointing the gun at me but smiled? The moment when you rather aimed it at yourself than shooting me? I can't even put it in words – the way I felt. I was so frightened… and so deeply touched. Thank you for this. It was madness and I would have deserved this bullet for all the failures that led to this moment. But it made me feel as if I did mean something to you and I will have remembered it until my last day._

_You have always been the most important person in my life. Well, apart from our parents, you were the only important person. My little brother. I had obligations and responsibilities and I was always loyal to queen and country but the only human that mattered was you._

_I hope you will be facing only happy times from now on. I know, I know – wishful thinking, awfully banal and sentimental. Nevertheless I hope for it._

_And I don't know if you will possibly spend your future years with your doctor, in a more meaningful way, or perhaps even with Miss Hooper. Or on your own as before. In any way I hope whatever decisions you make, they will be good for you._

_I could stop here, saying 'goodbye'. I planned to, as much as I'd planned this stream of words coming out of my hand at all._

_And I should. Stop, I mean._

_But somehow I can't. What do I have to lose? I will have lost everything already by the time you are reading this, won't I?_

_If you got to that point and don't want to know any more, just stop now. Be assured that I took all the sentiments I had for you and always denied to have (apart from some weak moments like when you drugged me…) with me. They never changed._

_But… There is one more thing. One thing I should have taken with me to the grave, not burden it on you. What a brother am I, after all?_

_A brother who loved you too much. No, not too much. But not only in the ways society accepts as appropriate._

_I can see you gasp. But now that I've gone that far…_

_It didn’t start when you were a child, not in the least. Even though of course there is no acceptable age at which an older brother can start desiring the younger one._

_Strange how easily this is written down. After all the guilty feelings and struggles it caused me over nearly twenty years. My only comfort was that you never realised it._

_I've mocked you once with your virginity. I am sorry for that. But in fact, I've stayed a virgin myself. No matter how much time will have passed between writing this letter and my death, this won't have changed._

_Because the only man I ever desired was you._

_I could blame it on our cleverness that nobody could have lived up to except for the other one. Our unique personalities that separates us from the rest of the world. And of course it would be true, at least for me. But it would be only part of the truth. It wasn’t only your brain that drew me to you, obviously. It was your beauty and your fascinating charisma. Your body, if I may be so blunt. I won't go into details. You know your assets. It was the whole You, actually. You are like nobody else. John Watson knows it. Molly Hooper knows it. Certainly Irene Adler knows it (and yes, I was aware you saved her, and no, I didn’t like it in the least). And I knew it, too. I wanted to possess you in all ways a man can possess another one._

_I'm close to starting this letter all over again, leaving my horrid confession out. But I don't want to. I want you to know how much you meant to me, Sherlock. I always knew I could never have you. I should have kept silent. But I don't want to leave you behind without you being aware of the depth of my feelings for you, which will also make you realise the depth of my depravation, probably._

_I will stop now before I go on and on. I never talked to you as much as I wrote now. I knew it wouldn’t be allowed or welcome. But if you really read this until the end, at least I had your attention once, even though I'll never know._

_Farewell, little brother. Do your best. Be happy. Indulge in sentiment if you want. I don't believe in an afterlife so I can't say I'll be watching over you, even though I would love to be able to._

_My main concern in life was your safety. And our sister's safety. I spectacularly failed at the latter, and in the go I failed you once more and nearly fatally. I hope there will be no repeat of her madness breaking free. Be careful, Sherlock. I would have never kept you from seeing her even though I didn’t understand what you gained out of it. But please – be safe. That's all I ever wanted for you. Well, I did want more as you know now. I hope you won't hate me for that._

_I hope you will remember me as your benevolent big brother, not just as some annoying man lording over you all your life, leering after you in fact._

_I told you caring were not an advantage in a selfish attempt to not have you care for someone else. Forgive me for that. You never listened to it anyway, of course. You never listened to me. Perhaps it was for the better, who knows? You've made your way. And I was very proud of you. Not of your drug-days as you might understand. But of all you achieved. All the cases you have solved, all the people you have saved, all the love you've gotten from your friends._

_You were my everything._

_Please remember this._

_I loved you, Sherlock. I've loved you from the day you were born until my last day on earth. And if there is an afterlife after all, I'll still love you when you read this._

_Now who's sentimental, huh?_

_I was the Iceman. It wasn't just a ruse. For the world I was. But for you, I cared._

_I love you._

_Always yours,_

_Mycroft_

## ***

Sherlock put the last piece of paper onto the desk. His hand was shivering. His cheeks were wet. He sat still for almost half an hour, and then he took out his phone and texted John that he would stay in his brother's house overnight and go to the hospital from there early in the morning with some stuff Mycroft might need.

John texted him back at once, asking if he was okay, and Sherlock said 'yes'. No point in letting him know that his world had been turned upside down for the second time on this day.

And then he went upstairs and lay down, fully clothed, on Mycroft's bed. The sheets were neat and clean but they smelled vaguely like his brother. He didn’t move until the morning, and he didn’t sleep for a moment. If he had believed in a higher power, he would have prayed that it might save his brother so they would be able to deal with the secret Mycroft had never wanted him to know for as long as he lived.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wakes up and realises his life will never be the same. Thanks to Sherlock, not because he suffered lasting damage :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments on the first chapter! I'm not used to that! :) I love it and I love everybody who reads and (hopefully) enjoys and shows their support! The pace will slow down on this story. It does drag out. But I hope the insights we get from the boys make up for that.

Consciousness came back in short little gasps. He was there, and then he was gone again. But his brain started working more with every time his eyelids fluttered open.

He felt the pressure below his ribcage. Stitches. A wound. The spleen? No real pain, just a pulling. A throbbing. Manageable. Narcotics, of course. That he was lying in a hospital bed, attached to machines, had come as the first conclusion. Memories of this woman, so small. The blade. The pain. The blood.

At first Mycroft had been alone in his room in the intensive care unit, the silence broken by the annoying beeping of the machines and the occasional voices and steps outside. The next time a nurse had been there, murmuring in a soothing voice.

And then he woke up to hearing familiar voices. A female one. Anthea. Doctor John Watson, talking to her. And the deep baritone of his brother.

He forced his eyelids open. Caught a glimpse at the hospital room. No intensive care anymore. Good sign. His look fell onto the tall, slim figure in black jeans and a purple shirt. Blinked rapidly.

“He's woken up again!”

“I can see that, John… Brother.”

Mycroft closed his eyes again at the tone. Soothing. Careful. Caring? It made him buzz deep inside.

“You'll be fine, Mycroft,” John said. “The doctor will talk to you of course but trust me. About ten days in this bed, at least four weeks at home, then slowly back to action. Doctor's orders. Mine.” Then he explained what had happened to his body. Blood loss after having his spleen cut. Blood transfusions. A successful operation.

A warm hand was brushing over his ever so carefully. Anthea. She had never deliberately touched him before. “Everything will be taken care of, sir. Your sister won't have any visitors. And nobody gets to you the next few days. When you can leave the hospital, you can work a little bit from home if you feel like it, just to give advice if you want. Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin will take over.”

“And you will be able to clean up their mess when you return.”

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock's dry tone. And then another warm hand touched his. The broad, long-fingered hand of his brother. Touched him in an affectionate way for the first time in about thirty years, unmistakable nonetheless, those beautiful violinist fingers.

“I told you before - you're slipping.” No malice in his words. A kind, sweet mockery.

It made him smile again. Perhaps he had died and gone to heaven?

No. Heaven didn’t exist. Sherlock was just concerned.

_Just._

It meant the world to him.

“I will leave now, sir, make sure everything is working smoothly.”

“Won't,” he brought out in a raspy voice he hardly recognised as his own. But somehow he didn’t really care. Work seemed so far away now.

“You need to rest,” the firm voice of John Watson said. “The kingdom will live. See you later. Will you come, Sherlock?”

“In a second.”

Mycroft heard the doctor and his PA leave the room after bidding him farewell.

Sherlock's voice was even softer when he spoke again. “I brought you a few things. Books. Your shaving stuff. Clothes, the most casual ones I could find in your wardrobe, for when you can get up again and don't want to run around in this ghastly hospital uniform. Even though blue suits you. Your phone stays with Anthea. But I've gotten you another one so you can text me if you need something and I'm not here. Or Anthea. Whatever you prefer.”

Mycroft could have listened to the sound of his brother's voice forever. Talking like this – no resentment, no annoyance, no hostility. So strange, so unexpected and so welcome.

And then a clear, disturbing thought came to his blurry mind and he tensed. Sherlock had been in his house. He would have thought Anthea would take care of these things but instead his brother had done it.

Had he…

No…

He wouldn’t!

He forced his eyes open once more, forced himself to focus at least for a moment. Sherlock was standing next to the bed, looking down on him with a look Mycroft had never seen on his beautiful features before – a mixture of caution, affection and knowledge and more he couldn’t identify.

And even with his brain feeling so numb Mycroft could deduce that his suspicion had been correct, and he closed his eyes in terror and wished back the darkness of being unconscious.

And then Sherlock took his hand in his. “It's all good, brother. Don't worry about anything now.” He paused as if to let his words sink in. “Your attacker was shot. Which is a shame.” His voice sounded hard now. But not against _him_. “You just get back on your feet. Sleep now. I'll come back in a little while. Tomorrow you'll be more awake I suppose.”

“Sherlock,” he rasped out, not knowing what he wanted to say.

And then he sighed when two warm lips were pressed on his forehead. Couldn’t have named what he was feeling in this moment.

“Don't think now, brother mine. Don't fret. Just get better. I'm sure I'll be here when you wake up again but if not, I'll be just around the corner… and with your phone you can reach me anytime. And Mycroft… I'm sorry for… so much. Sorry for being such a bloody… _dick_ to you, how John would say. But you've never lost me. And you never will…”

And while he was still talking, Mycroft started drifting back to sleep but he was still listening to his brother's words in wonder before he was off once more.

## *****

When Sherlock and John quietly entered the hospital room three hours later, Mycroft was sound asleep.

John walked over to his bed, glancing at him with a look of surprisingly fond professionalism. “He'll be fine, Sherlock,” he said, nodding. “Tomorrow he'll be able to eat something light again. He was very lucky.”

Sherlock joined him slowly. His brother did look a little better. Less pale, the shadows under his eyes less prominent. Less… pathetic… Still he looked so vulnerable and helpless. This wasn't the British Government, it wasn’t the Iceman. It was just Mycroft, and he appeared younger now, more at peace, relaxed thanks to his deep sleep.

He wondered how he would feel when he woke up. Remembering that he had deduced that Sherlock had read the letter… He had panicked. Felt ashamed. He shook the thought off for now. “Lucky…” he repeated. “That's one way to describe it.”

“She could have hit his heart,” John whispered.

“She really couldn’t. It's not much of a target…” Sherlock said, quoting Mycroft ironically.

John grinned wryly. “Everybody in this room knows what bullshit _that_ was. He's always cared for you.”

 _Much more than you know…_ “Yes. I'll move in with him when he gets out of hospital, John. He can't stay on his own.”

John looked very surprised, which didn’t surprise Sherlock in the least. But then the doctor nodded. “Of course. If he lets you…”

“I won't ask him. Anthea won't have time to babysit. And he wouldn’t want a stranger to take care of him. So who else than me?” Sherlock eyed John closely.

The doctor's dark-blue eyes were friendly. “No reason to justify that, Sherlock. I think it's great that you want to do that for your brother.”

“Do what?” came from the bed in a raspy voice.

“Oh, look who's awake? The sleeping beauty,” John said with a grin.

Sherlock looked into Mycroft's eyes. He could see the moment when Mycroft recalled their last meeting. “When you can leave here, I will stay with you in your house until you are back to your old self,” he explained calmly.

Mycroft stared at him for a long moment. “You will?” he said then, sounding confused, surprised and carefully pleased.

“Yes,” John threw in. “And I'll come by to check on you every second day or so.”

“And bring Rosie once in a while,” Sherlock said, surprising them all.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” John nodded firmly.

Mycroft seemed to need a moment to adjust to this.

Sherlock had a strange vision. He, John, Mycroft and Rosie as a family. Not the conventional type, of course, but some sort of family. Could that work? He remembered what Mycroft had written about John. But John had apologised for his violence. Sherlock had never blamed him in the first place. Mycroft wouldn’t understand it. But Sherlock's feelings for John were deep and pure. He had become a part of the Watson family and he knew John wouldn’t raise his hand against him again – as long as he didn’t jeopardise Rosie, and Sherlock would never do that. He wanted John and the child to stay at his side, at least until John found another woman to share his life with. But he would never exclude his brother again.

But of course first of all Mycroft had to recover. He and Sherlock had to get along. And they had to find out if they could repair their long-broken brotherly bond – and deepen it to something else.

Sherlock had done a lot of thinking since reading this letter. And he had realised that what had shocked him about it had only been that Mycroft seriously thought Sherlock didn’t give a damn for him, only slightly reconsidering it because of Sherlock's behaviour in Sherrinford. He was shocked that Mycroft had given up on them being closer ever again but he had nobody else to blame for that than himself. And it had stupidly saddened him that Mycroft would have wanted to let him know about the depth and nature of his feelings only after his death – even though of course he understood why. He hadn't been just a _dick_ towards his brother – he had been a bloody _nightmare_ of a younger sibling. Not much better than Eurus, only in other ways. And after all he'd done to Mycroft, he had still loved Sherlock…

The thought of what Mycroft had confessed in his letter made him feel very strange. Tingly. Curious. Scared. Weird. But not in a bad sense. It was something he… didn’t object. It was something he… considered. Longed for.

Just so.

He pushed the thoughts away for now. “You will have to stay here for a couple of days. And then I would like to help you until you can do everything alone again and return to work. If you want me to,” he decided to add, giving Mycroft a way out.

A short smile ghosted over Mycroft's face. “I would very much appreciate that,” he said then. “And you and your daughter are always welcome, Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock was well aware that this was the politeness of the government (un)official, the not-quite politician who knew how to pretend. But he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“Please! I'm John!”

John had changed his mind about Mycroft after Sherrinford. He and Sherlock had never spoken about it but Sherlock knew it.

Mycroft seemed to have problems to believe it but he nodded slightly. “Apologies. John.”

“You don't have to apologise, Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly. _'...for anything'_ was left unsaid, but he could see that Mycroft had not missed it, and he felt a pulling in his chest when Mycroft smiled at him cautiously but hopefully.

In this moment the door opened up and a woman's resolute voice asked, “Are you distressing my patient, gentlemen? No keeping him talking for so long now!”

The nurse, a typical English rose in her fifties, named 'Ingrid' according to the name badge on her starched uniform, sternly told them to come back later as she would check on 'Mr Holmes' now and make him comfortable, and then he would have to nap again.

Before Sherlock left, he pressed his brother's hand again – the one that was not attached to the drip – and the two Holmes men shared a cautious smile before Sherlock and John left him in the nurse's capable hands for now.

And Sherlock thought that he should finally call their parents to tell them about Mycroft's little mishap…

## *****

“He will be dealt with accordingly,” Anthea concluded, and Mycroft could hear her grim satisfaction.

“Good job,” he said. His voice was still a bit weak but it didn’t sound like someone else's voice anymore at least.

“Your brother insisted on it being done, believe me, sir. I think he would have liked to take care of him himself but he didn’t have the resources to find out who it was so quickly. But he was pleased when I called him to tell him we got the guy.”

Mycroft was relieved that Sherlock hadn't been able to deal with the man who had given the mother of the governor's wife his name and had told him where she could find him – the man who had at least partly been responsible for her daughter's death.

It was still very hard to believe that Sherlock cared at all, but since he obviously did, the chances that the former Sherrinford-guard would have gotten out of this alive if Sherlock had caught him first were very slim. Not that Mycroft would have really minded his fate. But he didn’t want his brother to avenge him. To, God forbid, kill for him after doing it already for John Watson and his godforsaken late wife…

He had woken up hours after Sherlock and John had left, alone, feeling a lot better. He wasn’t in pain thanks to the painkillers the drip provided him with, apart from the odd burn if he dared move; he also still got artificial feeding. And he had shaken off the impact of the general anaesthetic. He was still far from feeling well and he knew it would take time but he knew the worst was over.

And now that he felt more awake, more like himself, he had to deal with the fact that Sherlock had read this letter he must have written in a state of total insanity after the events of Sherrinford had shaken him to the core.

If he had left it by telling him how much he meant to him as a brother, it would have been fine. Embarrassing but fine, actually… But he had written a lot more than that. Not a lot in words but in words weighing heavily on him now. How did they have to weigh on his brother?

But Sherlock didn’t seem to be offended. That he had indeed read the letter was clear – he had referred to a part of it by telling Mycroft explicitly that he hadn't lost Sherlock. And never would… And did Mycroft really believe Sherlock had stopped reading before the end? No. If Sherlock had been curious enough to start reading against Mycroft's explicit will, he would have finished it. Mycroft couldn’t find it in himself to be upset that Sherlock had opened the letter even though he must have read the words on the envelope. He should have known Sherlock wouldn’t respect that if he ever got into his house on his own and searched for clues for whatever… He pushed the thought away that he might even have hoped for it…

So he… accepted Mycroft's misguided feelings? It was hard to believe. But he had even kissed him on the forehead. Had pressed his hand. Had searched for physical contact after all these years of avoiding even a hint of it – if Mycroft didn’t count being brutally pushed against the door of 221b with his arm twisted to his back…

He didn’t dare hope for it – that Sherlock could consider them being more than brothers. They had not even been proper _brothers_ for _decades_. Had his near-death-adventure really changed this so much? Or would Sherlock get away from him as soon as he was healthy again? Obviously he didn’t plan to – otherwise he wouldn’t have suggested taking care of Mycroft until then. But Mycroft knew very well that his brother could change his mind any day. He would have to be prepared for this. He would never resent him for that. What he felt for Sherlock was wrong. But if his brother really considered getting closer than ever, Mycroft would welcome him with open arms…

Because then it wouldn’t feel wrong anymore.

He had been silent for too long.

“Your brother was very worried,” Anthea said softly.

Mycroft winced. But of course Anthea couldn’t have read his mind. She knew him well but not _that_ well…

“What about the PM?” he changed the subject.

“Oh, he could hardly be hindered from racing here at once. But he will show up. They won't be able to stop him.”

Mycroft sighed. The PM had been very upset about the Sherrinford disaster. He would not come to check on Mycroft's health but to tell him what an idiot he was and that he'd had it coming… Which would have been entirely correct...

“You're his best man,” Anthea said with a smile. “He was worried.”

Damn, she _could_ read his mind… “Worried that I can't work for a while…”

“That, too, of course.” Anthea got up. “I'll better go back to the office now. Your brother will be here in a few minutes. I told him I would entertain you until then. The Yard needed his help.”

“Of course they did. What would anyone be without Sherlock,” Mycroft said, biting his lip. Obviously the drugs they gave him had loosened his tongue…

“You will never find out,” Anthea said, pressing his hand.

Mycroft looked up to her. “You think so?”

“No. I know it. Goodbye for now, sir. I'll be back tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Anthea. For everything. I never told you before but without you, I'd be lost.” Yes, it had to be the drugs.

She smiled brightly at him. “No, you wouldn’t be. But thank you anyway. It's bad though…”

“What?”

“That you will have to spend your birthday in this hospital.”

Mycroft had totally forgotten about it. “Oh. That really doesn’t matter.” He never paid attention to his birthday. His parents insisted on reminding him by calling him every year and Anthea did congratulate him, but apart from that, it was a day like any other.

“I think it does. Well, see you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” They shared a smile and then she was gone, and Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. Just a little dozing before his brother and the inevitable Doctor Watson would be back.

## *****

When Sherlock entered his room this time, he was without John Watson for a change – but still not alone.

“Brother.”

“Hello Mr Holmes!”

“Sherlock. Mr Lestrade.”

Sherlock sighed. “How long have you known each other now? How about 'Mycroft' and … and…” He knitted his brow theatrically.

“Greg!” the inspector hissed.

Mycroft grinned when he saw the amused sparkle in his brother's eyes. Greg Lestrade saw it, too, and rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“Got me. But it's hard to believe you finally do remember my first name.” He turned to Mycroft. “I'm sorry I kept your brother away from you but I had no idea what had happened until he turned up at the crime scene and told me he doesn’t have time for any unnecessary hassle because of you.”

“That's fine,” Mycroft assured him. “Our famous detective does need to use his brain from time to time even if his poor old brother is in agony.”

Sherlock frowned for a moment but then he realised that he was being teased, and he grinned with sparkling eyes, which made Mycroft's heart skip a beat.

Was it teasing though? Wasn't it rather… flirting? In the presence of a Scotland Yard policeman…

Sherlock flung himself on one of the visitor's chairs. “Not that I really needed my brain to solve this one. Really, even a four-year-old with sleep deprivation could have figured it out.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Your charm is overwhelming, Sherlock.”

It really was, actually…

“But how are you, Mr… Mycroft?”

Sherlock snorted. “'Mr Mycroft'? Come on, that's worse than calling you Graham!”

Mycroft just couldn’t get the silly grin from his face. His baby brother was on fire… And he looked delicious in his tight black suit, his hair a fancy black mess, his cheeks slightly flushed, his eyes brighter and prettier than ever.

And Sherlock caught his ~~leering~~ appreciative look and blushed even more, and for a long moment their looks bored into each other before Mycroft forced himself to focus on the inspector and answered his question, trying not to sound as if he was completely stunned by the increasingly high possibility that the brother he had fancied for so long, feeling deeply ashamed, might consider giving a relationship of a highly inappropriate kind a try.

They chatted for a while until the inspector realised that Mycroft was getting tired again.

He got up. “I'd better go now. Get well soon, Mycroft.”

“Thank you very much. And don't hesitate to ask my little brother for help. He can't be sitting here, entertaining me all day or he might get bored and use me for some nasty experiments.”

“Yes! There's something I've always wanted to try! Just fall asleep, would you!”

Mycroft and Greg sighed simultaneously, and Mycroft couldn’t remember having felt so light for a very long time, despite still being exhausted and chained to this awful hospital bed, a dull pain thrumming in his tummy from the effort of speaking.

“Speaking of nasty – I called our parents yesterday.”

Mycroft groaned. “Don't tell me – they will come along?”

“Yep. I could keep them from hurrying to your sickbed at once but they will show up for your birthday. But I could convince them to only come for this one day.”

“How did you do that?” Mycroft asked, feeling grateful. He did love his parents but he couldn’t be in their presence for longer than a few hours. He didn’t resent them for their reaction to the truth about Eurus anymore though. At least not very much… But it was all forgiven from their side.

“I told them you are very grumpy about being locked up and you'll get all snarky if you are bothered for too long.”

“Thanks,” Mycroft said drily, and Lestrade laughed.

Sherlock looked rather smug. “Just the truth, brother mine.”

There was an almost inaudible emphasize on the last word that made Mycroft's skin tingle. His brother was a master of the subtle undertones if he wanted to, and Mycroft was sure Greg Lestrade had not noticed anything.

And then the policeman left the brothers alone and their eyes met for a very long look as soon as the door had closed behind him.

Mycroft cursed himself for being so awfully tired. There was so much to talk about but he was a mess…

Sherlock didn’t miss his distress. “The spleen is a very underrated organ, brother. It's good they could save it because losing it would have made you feel exhausted very easily for a long time if not forever, and you would have had to take medication for the rest of your life. It's only natural you are still very flat. It will be fine soon.” His voice was calm and professional now.

“I hope so. I'm of no use to the country if I fall asleep at my desk every thirty minutes…”

“That won't happen. Perhaps… it was good to get a break.”

Mycroft nodded. “I wasn't exactly at the height of my awareness when this happened…”

“I'm sorry. I should have known… you're worried about me seeing Eurus. Adding to everything else you had on your mind.”

“Well… I know my concern is a bit overbearing. As I've always been towards you. I know you'll be careful in her presence.”

“No. I won't.”

“Sorry?” But Mycroft knew what he was on about.

“I won't go there anymore.”

“Oh. Well, she is not actually responsive after all.”

“That's not the main point.”

The air between them was crackling now.

“I see. Well, I do appreciate that,” Mycroft said slowly.

Sherlock nodded. “I don't have to say it, do I? But I do it anyway – I would have never fired at you or John. I pretended to play along so she was more shocked when I turned the gun against myself. Hoping she wouldn’t sit there watching me shoot myself.”

“I knew that. The moment you aimed the gun at your head. But…”

“No, Mycroft. You did _not_ deserve to be shot for letting Moriarty into her life. Or for anything else that happened.”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “Keep telling me this. Perhaps one day I'll believe it.”

“It was all _her_ fault. But afterwards… I felt responsible for her. Protective even. I don't know why after what she did to us…”

It wasn’t the moment to tell him that he believed she had simply manipulated him into feeling like this. He would realise it himself eventually now that he had apparently gotten over it. “Well, perhaps we always feel protective towards our younger siblings. It's a new experience for you after all.” His eyelids started to become seriously heavy, and he hated it.

Sherlock smiled and got up. “That also works for older siblings as it seems. Sleep now, brother mine.” His voice was pure silk.

“Will you come back later?” Mycroft asked him, unwilling to let him go.

Sherlock bent over him so Mycroft could smell wool and aftershave and shampoo and Sherlock. “Of course I will. Do you need anything?”

Their eyes met. “No. I've got everything I need when you come back.” Mycroft closed his eyes at this honest and painfully sentimental statement. It had escaped his lips so easily.

And then he opened his eyes widely when he felt soft lips brushing the lightest of kisses on his mouth.

“I'll always come back,” Sherlock whispered while pulling back.

Mycroft would have died to kiss him again and Sherlock saw it in his eyes.

“Later. You have to be feeling better first.”

“It sucks…”

Sherlock smiled this smile Mycroft could have killed for. “I know it does. Patience, brother.”

“And that from _you_ …”

His brother's low chuckle did things to him that were not helpful to his healing process. Or perhaps they were…

“I'm sorry, Mycroft. I know I shouldn’t have opened this letter.” It was the first time either of them spoke it out. “It was disrespectful. But then… I'm not sorry at all that I read it all.”

“Neither am I. Oh, Sherlock… I… Damn tiredness!”

“Hush, brother. No need to stress yourself. We have time.”

“Promise me…” _'Promise me you won't change your mind'_ he couldn’t bring out anymore but Sherlock heard it nonetheless.

“I promise.”

And with this Sherlock kissed him again, and a moment later Mycroft dozed off with a smile on his lips, the feeling of his baby brother's beautiful mouth still lingering on them.

## *****

“Holmes, you look ghastly.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mycroft said drily.

Anthea had been right – they couldn't keep the PM away forever. He had stormed into his room, glancing at him.

He had eaten a tiny bit this morning for the first time after the operation, and then Nurse Ingrid had urged him to stand up and slowly walk a few steps. He had felt like an 80-year-old man on a very bad day, but he had eagerly agreed on being brought to the bathroom, avoiding the humiliating measures he'd had to endure before.

Now he was exhausted and the last person he wanted to see was his boss.

But of course the man didn’t care about that at all. Mycroft prepared for being yelled at to pull himself together and go back to work. But to his surprise, the older man sighed and let himself drop onto a chair.

“I'm sorry, Mycroft. This is awful for you. It should have never happened.”

Had he really apologised to him? But Mycroft knew it better. “It was my fault that…”

“No. It absolutely wasn't. I read your reports about Sherrinford and your sister, and nothing of this was your fault. And this woman had no right to blame you.”

“She lost her daughter. She wasn't herself.” Anthea had told him about the woman who had tried to kill him. She had raised her child on her own, had taken three jobs to get them through. Carol-Anne had been the only person she'd had. Eurus was out of her reach and she probably hadn't known about John's and Sherlock's presence so Mycroft had been the substitute. He could understand it. If anyone took Sherlock away from him… He didn’t even want to imagine… He was tremendously grateful she had chosen him, not Sherlock… Even though probably Sherlock would have seen it coming and it would have never happened.

“You are very generous. But there is more to that. This country burdens too much on you. It's more obvious than ever how irreplaceable you are now that you are not able to do what you do each and every day. Edwin and our precious lady are doing their best but they can't replace you. Nobody can.”

“Well, I won't live forever – and I would like to retire before I turn ninety. We'll have to find other ways.” He knew there were computer programs that connected the dots like he did but there was a level they couldn’t cover – the human factor.

“I know. And you need to take some time off. Get healthy and regain your strength. Your PA told me very clearly that you are doing your job perfectly but that it takes its toll on you and that you can't go on like this forever. She's right.”

Mycroft was stunned. Anthea had admonished the PM? But then… he wondered why it surprised him. Nobody could have asked for a more loyal and capable PA.

“I think you should at least work more from home. You don't have to be bothered by meetings so much as well. We'll figure it out as soon as you are feeling well enough to come back to work. I…”

And then the door swung open and a breathtakingly beautiful man in black stormed in, dark clouds on his face.

“Sir,” Sherlock snarled, sounding as disrespectful as a word which was the essence of respect could sound.

“Oh, the younger Mr Holmes. I was…”

“…just disturbing my sick brother?”

“Sherlock…” But Mycroft sounded more pleased than reprimanding. This was such a new situation – Sherlock protecting him… He could get used to it.

The PM raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “Actually I just wanted to let him know that things must change and that he should take his time to get well.”

“Oh.” Sherlock nodded, looking taken aback, but just for a moment. “It's about time you realise he's not a machine, no matter that his brain works like one.”

“I get that, yes, no need to snap my neck or anything.”

The PM sounded seriously pleading, and it pleased Mycroft immensely.

“Nah,” Sherlock said. “That might mean early elections and even more work for him.” He winked and to Mycroft's surprise, the PM laughed out loud.

“I think they would just replace me with another figure to look as if they were in charge,” he said, winking back. “But still I'd appreciate staying in one piece.”

“I'll consider it.”

“You are too generous…” He turned to Mycroft again. “Well, I shall leave you alone now. Your colleagues are keen on seeing you as well but they are very busy.”

“And he needs his recovery,” Sherlock reminded him in a voice that left no room for interpretation.

“Of course. I shall give them your regards and tell them to wait until you are well on your feet again.”

“I would appreciate that, thank you, sir.” Mycroft felt stupidly happy, and it was hard for him to not show it.

But of course the PM didn’t observe, as the goldfish never did. “Mycroft, Mr Detective.”

“Sir.”

Sherlock just waved ironically, and the PM left with a grin Mycroft had never seen on the man's face.

“Highly astonishing,” Mycroft mumbled.

“Yes. He nearly looked human.” Sherlock sat down on the chair the PM had just left.

“Thank you.”

“What for?” The smirk on Sherlock's face was adorable.

“For being… like a knight in shining armour instead of… well…”

Sherlock grinned wryly. “Well, get used to it.”

“I will love to.”

The brothers shared a long look and then Sherlock opened his mouth to say something when Nurse Ingrid the Intimidating as Mycroft had secretly dubbed her stormed in, all red-headed, red-faced competence. “Hello, Young Mr Holmes. Mr Holmes – it's time for walking around a bit instead of chatting.”

“ _I_ can do that,” Sherlock said calmly.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Really!” Sherlock protested. “Look at me – I'm a strong man! I can hold him up.”

“If you let him fall…”

“I shall be doomed!”

Mycroft looked from one to the other as if he was watching a tennis match.

“Alright… You agree on that?” Ingrid scrutinized Mycroft.

He hurried to nod. “Oh yes. It's not that I don't appreciate your assistance…”

“Balderdash! No need to flatter me!” She pointed at Sherlock. “Just a few steps! No stressing my patient!”

“I wouldn’t dare!”

“Good.” And with this she was gone, and Mycroft was rather sure he had seen a smirk on her face.

“So, brother. May I have this dance?” Sherlock's eyes were sparkling.

When Mycroft slung his arm around Sherlock's waist and was embraced around the shoulder by his baby brother, he would have been willing to walk ten thousand miles.

## *****

_Hello. I thought I'd try out my new phone. Hope you and the doc are having a nice evening. MH_

_Works just fine as it seems. John's out but will be back in a moment. How are you? Very bored? I could come back. SH_

_Perfect. Remind me to give you the money for it. I'm bored but rather relaxed. Will not be up for much longer so thank you, but I'll be happy if you come in the morning. MH_

_No, it was a gift. Of course I will come over. So you've recovered from our walk? SH_

_That will have to be discussed. I'm glad to hear that. And yes, I did. It's terrifying how much something like this affects your life. MH_

_It certainly is. But I'm grateful you still have a life that can be affected. SH_

_Agreed. Thank you, Sherlock. For everything. Especially for – reacting like this. MH_

“Hey, Sherlock. Why are you smirking at your phone?” John slipped out of his jacket after putting Rosie onto the floor on her soft blanket.

“It's just Mycroft. Texted me for the first time with the new phone.”

_John just came back, sorry. It's a bit difficult to concentrate on – something like this when he is here. SH_

“So he's okay?”

“Yes. As much as he can be.”

_Of course. We'll postpone this subject. Enjoy your evening! MH_

_And you take care of yourself. If you want me to bring you something, just let me know. I hope you can sleep. SH_

It was very difficult for him, Sherlock Holmes, the so-not master of dealing with emotions. So far he had only been able to express his feelings when Mycroft had been almost off. Somehow he didn’t feel comfortable right now with writing about it in a text message so he wasn’t that angry that John had interrupted it. This was just too… foreign for him. And way too important to mess it up.

He had thought about it for hours on end and he had analysed his reactions to kissing his brother on the lips, as innocent as these kisses had been after all, and to holding him to stabilize him, feeling his hard, warm body against his own.

He had liked it. It had made him, and still made him, feel awkward but not in a bad way. He longed for more. But he knew he would need a lot of time. It was weirdly fitting that Mycroft would physically need that, too. And probably his brother was every bit as tense about it as he was.

But Sherlock considered something he had never considered with anyone else – a real romantic and sexual relationship. With simultaneously the most inappropriate man he could have found and the only one he could imagine it with at all. He was drawn to his brother in a way he had never been drawn to anyone else.

He was Sherlock Holmes, able to deduce everything, a genius in his own right, and years ago he had lectured towards Irene Adler that the chemistry of love was very simple. But now that he was confronted with it personally for the very first time, he had to face the fact that it was not explainable at all.

It was hard to believe his acceptance of Mycroft's unexpected feelings and he returning them above all had come out of nowhere. Had he, in fact, seen his brother this way before, under all the layers of resentment, freed by the worry about him and Mycroft's honesty? Had it been a natural progression? Had this premonition been actually about this, not the attack? Had the crackling moment in Sherrinford shown him unconsciously what his brother was feeling for him, and that he, in fact, returned it? Had Mycroft's letter that had shown him the whole of his brother's personality – not only extremely smart and sarcastic and cold and all that but secretly so emotional – made him fall in love with him? Was it just a chemical explosion inside his brain – but grounded on their past and the brotherly emotions he had always had?

Somehow he was rather sure he would never know. Emotions just couldn’t be analysed that way, not even by him. All he knew was that they were here now. And they wouldn’t go away. He didn’t want them to go away.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Can you take care of her while I'm under the shower?”

Sherlock nodded and proceeded to take Rosie on his lap. “Sure. Look who's grown again today!”

John grinned. “No, she hasn't.”

“You have. Don't listen to your silly old dad.”

The blond man just snorted and left the room, fondly mumbling something about cheeky Holmeses.

## *****

“So it's healing well, they say?”

“Yes,” Mycroft assured Sherlock's flatmate.

“The wound is dry?” John's eyes were narrowed in concentration.

“Yes.”

“No leaking of…”

“John, just rip off the fresh bandage and examine it yourself,” Sherlock said drily, and Mycroft grinned.

John glared at him. “That's important!”

“I agree, but this is an exclusive private hospital for the rich and the famous. And for my brother, the sly, shadowy dark night of the Queen. They certainly know what they are doing here and they know they have to. His doctor wouldn’t want to be buried in a forest at night.”

Mycroft caught Sherlock's glance and slightly blushed when his snarky little brother winked at him, impossible for John to see. It made him tingle deep inside and it gave him a stir in a formerly completely neglected body part. For a second he thought that he could only hope the stitches would not burst if he got a full erection but he pushed this embarrassing idea away.

“I appreciate your concern, John,” he said before his brother and his best friend could get into a row in front of him. “But they assured me everything is as well as it can be expected.” And he was feeling better with every day. The wound hurt when he stood up or moved too quickly but he could feel that it was healing.

John nodded. “I'm sure they did. But…”

“Oh, John!” Sherlock said with a sigh.

“What?” the doctor replied defensively, and Mycroft blanked out their bickering.

He had been a tad disappointed that Sherlock hadn't come alone. But of course he knew very well that whatever not-brotherly would develop between them, John might not know about it, even if the doctor seemed to like him a little better now after the events of Sherrinford. So Sherlock could hardly tell John to stay away because the man would wonder why. He was a goldfish but not an idiot.

He figured Sherlock would want them to grow together in a way as he had not long ago insisted that John was family as well, but his brother shouldn't – and hopefully wouldn’t – forget that incest was still forbidden, not only in the heads of the people but by law and under the threat of punishment and had to stay entirely between the two of them. Mycroft was willing to play nice and even show some interest in the doctor's child even though he was, by nature, a man who had no affection for people in general and children in particular – with the only exception being his brother, and, to some extent, his loyal PA. He would be kind to John's daughter to please his brother. But they wouldn’t become some weird patchwork family now that Mycroft and Sherlock were about to get as close as never before. Mycroft knew the doctor had saved his brother's life at least twice, and he was grateful for it of course. But he also knew about John's violence towards his brother and he would not forget that either. But since Sherlock had read the letter, he had to know that.

He had never understood Sherlock's forgiveness towards both John and his wife. If Sherlock had been in love with the doctor, as he had feared he was in the beginning, it would have been more logical to him. But since Sherlock had been so fond of the doctor's late wife as well, he had realised some time ago that Sherlock was not looking for a romantic relationship with the man. His forgiveness was based on a deep – and in Mycroft's eyes unhealthy – friendship and it had saved John Watson from Mycroft's wrath. But if he ever got violent against Sherlock again, Mycroft would not be so indulgent anymore. Especially not under the new circumstances…

All in all, he was sure that in the end Sherlock would end up having two homes. He couldn’t live with Mycroft forever as he would never be able to explain this to John. He would be torn between deceit and loyalty, would have to find excuses and right-out lie, and it would certainly not be easy for him.

But of course he was being presumptuous. Who knew if Sherlock would even be able to start a physical relationship with him? He was sure he did want to but if he could really do it was another question. And Mycroft? Who would be forty-five the next day and had never even seriously kissed anyone?

No. Mycroft was sure he would be able to give Sherlock everything he needed. He had been dreaming about it for so long. As soon as his wound had healed, they would go as far as Sherlock was comfortable to go. But he had to consider the possibility that it wouldn’t be very far. And he would never make Sherlock do anything he didn’t want to, no matter how much he wanted it himself.

The Baker Street boys were finished with arguing, and John asked Mycroft if he could use his bathroom, which Mycroft allowed him with pleasure as it gave him and Sherlock a moment for themselves.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed as soon as the door had closed behind the blond.

“Hey…”

“Hey, little brother.”

“You look good.”

“Thank you. Don't have to tell you the same…” Mycroft had made some effort with his appearance. He was still wearing the hospital clothes but he had managed to shower (possible thanks to the waterproof bandage) and wash his hair, shave thoroughly and brush his teeth until they shone. He was feeling a lot better today but he knew he still had a long way to go until he would be his old self. Well, hopefully a better version of it…

“Kiss me, Sherlock?” he asked, knowing they didn’t have much time.

And Sherlock nodded and smiled, and then his lips were pressing on Mycroft's once more, but this time Mycroft returned the pressure, and both of them opened their mouths at the same time and their tongues met for a moment, which made them both sigh in stunned pleasure.

Sherlock was the reasonable one and pulled back a moment later and got up. “Soon, brother mine,” he whispered. “Just a few days more and then we'll be alone.”

“I can't wait.”

“Neither can I. We'll have to take it slow, for more than one reason…” He sounded apologetic, bidding for Mycroft's understanding.

“Of course we will. I'll never do…” He broke off when the bathroom door opened up, but Sherlock's smile and the affection in his eyes told him that his brother had heard the unspoken rest - _'…anything you don't want'_. Of course he had.

“So,” John said, looking at him with piercing eyes, “care to let me have a look under the bandage?”

## *****

“Everybody out now.” The loud, stern voice of Nurse Ingrid made every person in Mycroft's overcrowded hospital room cringe.

“But it's my son's birthday!” Mummy protested, and Mycroft winced and saw Sherlock do the same. Even John looked fearful.

“And he's been operated just a few days ago! He needs rest! He needs to heal! You don't want to jeopardise his healing process, do you?!”

“But we're only here for today and…”

“Mummy,” Mycroft hurried to say, seeing Ingrid's face turning an even brighter shade of red than usual. “It was great to have you here but she's right.”

Mummy looked shattered, and Father took her hand. “Violet, we must do what she says, and you heard Mycroft. He needs to get well. Perhaps we can visit him again when he's at home.”

“Yes, and all alone, and nobody will care for him…” Mummy sobbed.

“ _I_ will,” Sherlock said. “I'll stay with him.”

“You will?!” Mummy was all wide eyes. Sherlock would have told her before probably but she had talked and talked for hours on end, and Mycroft had seen his brother rolling his eyes so often that he had started fearing for them. That Sherlock had still stayed, along with the faithful doctor, said more about his feelings for Mycroft than any words could have.

“Yes, he offered it and I’m thankful for it.” Mycroft smiled at Sherlock. The younger man smiled back slightly, his eyes sparkling.

“But he can't cook! And how…” Mummy didn’t get any further.

“Out now! I won't say it again! Everybody leaves except for my patient!!!” Ingrid thundered.

Thirty seconds later Mycroft was alone; he hadn't even gotten a handshake from his parents as they had been the first ones Ingrid had shushed out. Sherlock had managed to press his hand for a second after wiggling into his coat, and even this tiny touch had given him pleasant chills.

“Thank you,” he said drily, actually glad about finally being alone. Of course he would have wanted Sherlock to stay but he would text with him as soon as the nurse had left the room and certainly see him again in the morning. But the hours spent with his parents, along with Sherlock and John, had been rather stressful. The elder Holmes had complained that they couldn’t see Eurus but Mycroft had explained to them that he would not let that happen until he was back at work. Anthea had told them before, of course. His PA had come by before anybody else had arrived, bringing him a book. She had stayed long enough for Sherlock and John to arrive, and then left to go to work.

His parents had given him two surprisingly tasteful pullovers, and Sherlock had bought a package of very expensive socks for him, apologising for the rather banal gift. Mycroft had just said that he absolutely appreciated it as it was his favourite brand, and that Sherlock's support was the only present Mycroft needed. Of course between the lines he had said something else with it, and Sherlock had understood once more and pressed his hand a tad harder.

The nurse took care of his pillows, plumping them up to make him more comfortable. “They can't disturb you for so long, birthday or not,” she mumbled and proceeded to take his temperature – in his ear, thank God.

He smiled and then he saw something on his nightstand that didn’t belong there – Sherlock's scarf. And his smile got deeper. He knew Sherlock hadn't forgotten it…

## ***

“I swear, I'll be out again in five minutes,” Sherlock pleaded. Ingrid growled. She sounded like a rather pissed off Pitbull. But Sherlock was sure she was much more dangerous. “It's just that I forgot my scarf,” he told her again, hoping she wouldn’t say she would get it for him.

“All right, go! If you're not out again in five minutes, I'll come and…”

“…drag me out by my ear?” Sherlock gave her a winning smile which wasn't returned.

“If you are lucky!”

Sherlock chuckled and was rather delighted when her mouth twitched before she glowered at him again.

“Your time is running!”

“Okay! Thank you!” And with this Sherlock hurried down the corridor to enter his brother's hospital room again after having to share him all day with his parents, who had left London straight away, complaining about 'this nasty nurse'. Mummy had insisted on sending him a few cookery-books with easy recipes so Mycroft wouldn’t starve under his care. Sherlock was fine with that as long as she didn’t insist on moving in with his brother… But thank God their parents had a very vivid community life and lots of commitments that kept them busy, not even mentioning the line-dancing.

He knocked and Mycroft asked him in at once, not sounding surprised at all.

“Hey! I forgot my bloody scarf!” Sherlock said loudly, in case the nurse was eavesdropping.

“I saw that. I was about to text you…”

Sherlock had closed the door behind him and sat down on the bed. “Happy birthday, brother,” he said once more but now he could finally bend down to kiss him.

Mycroft kissed him back, his hand finding Sherlock's neck, and their tongues pushed against each other. Sherlock could feel his cock filling out at the warm, firm hand on his sensitive skin and the wet tongue invading his mouth. There was no fighting for dominance in this deep, passionate kiss but the pure will to explore and to please.

Mycroft's eyes looked dazed when Sherlock reluctantly pulled back. Sherlock smiled and wiped over his brother's wet lips.

“I don't want to stop,” Mycroft whispered, and Sherlock nodded firmly.

“Neither do I. But I fear Ingrid's wrath if I bother you for too long – in her eyes.”

“She's like a police dog…”

“But with more teeth.”

The Brothers Holmes grinned at each other, and Sherlock pecked Mycroft's slightly swollen lips again before he forced himself to get up and grab his scarf. It would look very odd if he forgot it for real this time and leave the room without it…

“Thank you for the socks. They are just what I wanted.” Mycroft said it without even a hint of irony or mockery but Sherlock grimaced nonetheless.

“I suck at making gifts. But I promise that will change as soon as… I know you better.”

Mycroft smiled. “Will you give me vouchers with certain sexual favours then?” he asked with teasing dreaminess.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock laughed out loud. “You are cheeky!”

“Appalling, I know.” But Mycroft looked rather smug. Delightfully smug…

“No, I wouldn’t say that…”

Sherlock was about to kiss him again when he heard steps outside he knew all-too-well. “Fuck! I'll text you! And tomorrow morning I'll be back.” He walked backwards to the door.

Mycroft smiled. “That sounds great.”

“Young Mr Holmes!”

“I'm out already! See – got my scarf!” Sherlock waved his hand with the blue object.

Ingrid looked as if she was close to loop it around his neck and pull until his eyes gobbled out. But then she saw Mycroft's delighted expression and just shook her head. “Men!”

“Yes! Ghastly creatures, all of them,” Sherlock confirmed.

“If you are mocking me…”

“I wouldn’t dare! Good night, Ingrid, Mycroft. I know you in the best of hands!”

“I definitely am.”

Ingrid snorted and unceremoniously shoved Sherlock out of the room. But he managed to wink at Mycroft before the door closed.

He was smiling all the way home.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is allowed to go home. Conversations are due.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long chapter. The rest of them won't be that massive :)

“Home, sweet home, huh?”

Mycroft smiled, enjoying the cold wind and the drizzle on his face after leaving the cab. He could have asked for a government car but he hadn't felt like it.

Finally at home. Finally able to move a bit more. He could still feel the burn in his tummy though. The outer sutures were still in and would be removed in three days.

He would only return to work four weeks later – which was fast in comparison but the wound inside was healing exceptionally well as he'd been told. But he was feeling weak on his legs now, and he was grateful for Sherlock's strong arm around his waist. He would work a bit from home if he felt like it – after all he only needed his eyes and his brain for it. Sherlock would make sure he wouldn’t overtax himself. But of course his brother wouldn’t be in this house all the time. It would drive him crazy, and it would be too much. They had to get to really know each other slowly and not get on each other's nerves before anything could ever happen between them. And John would get suspicious…

So Sherlock would cook for him and look after him but would also solve cases if his help was required – John would let him know if someone showed up in Baker Street, and Lestrade would call him on his mobile phone.

It was all arranged.

And now…

“Come inside, Mycroft.” Sherlock had managed to unlock the door with his free hand. “I know you've missed the fresh London air you used to get so much of during your work days and the beautiful cold rain too, but it's time to rest again.”

“Don't mock me, Sherlock.”

“Why not? I thought that's what I'm here for?” Sherlock smiled and Mycroft felt a pulling at his heart that had nothing to do with his injuries.

They were alone.

Finally they were alone.

## ***

“Oh, what's that?”

Sherlock smiled at his brother's wide eyes. “Your housekeeper left that for you. I told her what happened and that she won't have to come for the next couple of weeks, on full pay of course. I hope this was in your interest.”

“It was.” Mycroft smiled at the basket full of jam, honey, fruits and other treats in the middle of his living room table and carefully sat down in an armchair. “But who will scrub my floors then?”

“I doubt we'll make a big mess.” Sherlock blushed at the unplanned double entendre. “Well… Not so fast at least…” He estimated that it would take Mycroft at least another week to be in the condition to… get physical. Have sex with him. Slowly at first. Not too much. For none of them.

Mycroft laughed. “Did you plan to come all over the floor?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Damn… I just meant…”

“Sorry, little brother. No, we won't make a lot of mess. And I've always wanted to see you on your knees, cleaning my parquet.”

Sherlock was thankful for the change of subject. “Oh have you?”

“Oh yes. I'm very grateful for all you're doing for me,” Mycroft grew serious. “I don't take it for granted. Well, of course not…”

“Everything has changed, Mycroft. And it will change even more. And now…”

Both of them winced when the doorbell rang.

Mycroft sighed. “So much for being alone… That can only be someone from the office. It's not John I guess.”

“No, he would have texted me. And he's planned to show up in only a few hours to check on you.”

“Well, whoever it is, you'd better have a look, my beautiful watchdog.”

Sherlock grinned about the teasing and internally gasped at the adoring tone and the nickname, and then he hurried to get to the door to see who was disturbing them.

He was stunned to find no other than Mrs Hudson at the doorstep, carrying a big box. “Oh, hello.”

She smiled at him. “Sherlock, my dear, John told me your brother would be allowed to go home this morning and I thought I bring you a lasagne to make it easier for you today.” She offered him the package and Sherlock almost let it drop as it was so heavy.

“Oh, thank you. Don't tell me you walked with this stuff all the way from Baker Street!” He knew she hated cabs.

“Oh, silly boy! I took my car of course.”

“Come inside for a moment. My brother won't believe it otherwise…” Mrs Hudson, being as not-fond of his brother as they got, driving here in her sports car to bring them pasta…

“No, I can't do that,” she played shy, but her eyes were curiously looking at what she could see of the house from her position.

Sherlock grinned. “Please. I insist! My brother will be delighted.”

“Do you have another one?”

Sherlock laughed out loud. “No, it's the one and only Mycroft Holmes. Come.”

“All right, if you're sure.”

“He won't bite you. He'll hardly be able to get up from his chair again…”

She stood and grabbed his arm. “You're still worried about him.”

“Yes, I mean… He's healing for sure but the operation was tough and it _was_ close. He's still tiring very fast.”

“But his doctors have found it safe to release him from the hospital, Sherlock. And you'll make sure he won't lift anything heavy and will rest enough and generally take it easy.”

Somehow Sherlock had a vivid image of Mycroft lifting _him_ to take _him_ … He couldn’t avoid blushing. This was out of the question for weeks to come. He did hope that in a few days they could do _something_. Only if it was safe for his brother of course. Sherlock had lived without sex for nearly thirty-eight years and he would for sure be able to wait some more…

“Yes,” he mumbled. “Of course I will. That's why I've moved in here.” But he wouldn’t be here all the time. He couldn’t be without work for weeks and he knew he and Mycroft had to get acquainted to each other carefully so they wouldn’t fall back into old habits. This was a delicate situation in many ways and he hoped they would handle it well. And he hoped Mycroft would be reasonable in the hours he would be away.

“That was very nice of you,” Mrs Hudson said and patted his shoulder, and he smiled at her while they were entering the living room.

“Mycroft, look who's visiting us. And brought us a fine lasagne.”

His brother looked slightly shocked and his eyes glanced at the box as if he was thinking to call in the poison unit. “Oh, that is very kind, Mrs Hudson,” he said politely. “Please, take a seat.”

“Only if I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all.”

“You look a little pale around the nose. Shall I make tea?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Oh no, I'll do that, for all of us.” Mrs Hudson stared at him and he shrugged. “What, you think I can't make tea?”

“I'm sure you can. It's just that I never heard that sentence from you!”

Sherlock just grinned and left the room with the food, wondering if it was safe to leave Mycroft and Mrs Hudson alone. They had never exactly been friends… But Sherlock wanted Mycroft to be part of his Baker Street family - even if Mycroft was hesitant about it, which Sherlock hadn't missed, and even if they had to deceive John and Mrs Hudson about the nature of their relationship - and his brother could as well start now to get used to it.

And Sherlock would be there quickly if things escalated…

## ***

“That was very nice of you, Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft thanked Sherlock's landlady again when they were alone. Of course she had done this for Sherlock, not for him. He very well remembered the day not long ago when she had sent him out of her house, calling him a 'reptile'. This woman had always disliked him.

“It's a way to say 'thank you' and 'sorry',” she completely surprised him.

He narrowed his eyes. “Thanking me? What for?”

“You didn’t meet your brother very often after this awful day in this terrible prison, did you?” she asked without answering him.

“Um, no. Just for the meeting with our parents and this one time when I accompanied them to listening to Sherlock and Eurus playing the violin.” Both of these appointments had been hard to bear – getting viciously, albeit understandably yelled at and being insulted by the elder Holmes and watching Sherlock playing nice with the sister who had wanted to see him dead. Besides that, he and Sherlock hadn't met once. And he wondered if this would have ever changed if this woman hadn't done him the questionable favour of almost killing him. The thought was more than a bit depressing.

“Well, then you've missed how he changed afterwards.”

“Changed how?” Mycroft asked with his head tilted. Glad to be a big brother now who was allowed to spend whatever limited time with his baby sister, the monster?

“He got sadder every day.”

Mycroft paled. “He did?”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “I was about to contact you but… since you never showed up anymore, I thought…”

He paled even more. “What, that I didn’t care about him anymore?!”

“Yes, now I know it was silly.” She bent forward. “I think this woman had some evil spell over him! Like this… nasty prostitute years ago. She still texts him, you know that?”

Mycroft closed his eyes. No, he hadn't known that. Of course he had known that Sherlock had saved Irene's life. His brother had been under surveillance for ages already. Of course Mycroft was informed when he left the country… He would have taken measures if _The Woman_ had ever returned, but she hadn't. She was safe in America. He was sure Sherlock had never met her again. But it still irked him that they were in contact… But now that was not relevant. “Evil spell? How so?”

“I don't know, he just returned from this prison in such a black mood and it hardly ever lightened up. And still he went there again and again, as if he was forced by anything.”

“I think that was just his wish to bond with her, and he was depressed it didn’t work. Don't you worry. He will not return, he told me.”

“Yes, and that's what I'm thanking you for. That and for bringing the smile back on his face. You should have seen him the last couple of days, after not being worried anymore that you could, you know, die. He was happy. I don't think I ever saw him so happy.”

Mycroft swallowed. He doubted that Sherlock had been running around singing in Baker Street. He had certainly been his usual cool self. But this woman knew his brother very well… “Well. We've been estranged for a long time. That did change a lot over the past days.”

“It was about time. I hope you two will get along, so all alone with each other…” A fine smile flickered over her face.

Was he seeing ghosts? Or did she really know anything she shouldn't? He didn’t even want to imagine… “I'm sure it will be fine. He won't be here all the time anyway. He will have to work. His brain needs stimulation.” He blushed at this choice of words and blushed even more for blushing like a fool.

Mrs Hudson watched him very closely. And then she surprised him by patting his hand. “I know he's in the best of hands with you.”

“You do? I thought you hate me…”

“No! Hate you! I don't hate anyone! Well, perhaps except for my late husband. And for these two ghastly women who tried to play with Sherlock's soul.”

“I share your feelings about the latter,” he assured her. He had and still did despise Irene Adler for everything she stood for. Especially for confusing his brother and making him act in the most irrational way he'd ever had. And deep inside he tremendously disliked her for getting his brother's affection… One could as well call it 'hate'.

Not long ago he had thought he didn’t hate Eurus. But after what Mrs Hudson had just told him, he might reconsider this. He didn’t believe Eurus had brought a spell upon his brother – she was a talented manipulator like every Holmes child, but she wasn't a _witch_ even though there was a physical resemblance… In fact she hadn't even been able to manipulate Sherlock in their last task in Sherrinford. It hadn't been a spell – it had just been his brother's good heart. And now Mycroft owned it, and he would never break it or play with it. But she had continued to make him feel bad after making him go through hell in Sherrinford, and that was enough for Mycroft to hate her…

Mrs Hudson had gone on talking. “I never hated you. I just thought you had ghastly manners sometimes when you came into my house. I didn’t like your behaviour when John saw his dead wife on video! And you, telling me to shut up! That wasn't nice! And all these times when you just stumbled into my house without asking. But of course you did it only for Sherlock, and that's why I want to apologise. You are not, in fact, a reptile.”

“Everything I do, apart from my work for the crown, I do for Sherlock,” Mycroft said before he could even think about it. And if he ever had to choose between the crown and his brother, he wouldn't hesitate a second. Sherlock would always take precedence.

She smiled at him. “I know. And I know he's safe with you.”

“Of course. He's my little brother, and he means a lot to me.”

“No, Mr Holmes. He means the world to you.”

He couldn’t deduce her, it was sad but true. He had no idea if she knew Sherlock was in love with him and was therefore in a much better mood or if she thought getting along better with his older sibling was enough to cause this change. But nothing had happened between them so far except for some more or less innocent kisses. And he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t confine in her and talk about it. “He does,” he said quietly. “And I will protect him against anything and anyone.”

She nodded and her smile was nothing but friendly. “I know. That's how it should be.”

And Mycroft finally understood that no matter if she knew anything or would get to know anything about them, she would never harm his brother. And he would certainly not give her a reason to want to harm _him_ …

And then Sherlock appeared in the door with a big tray with tea and biscuits even though it wasn't exactly tea time – Sherlock could eat biscuits in the middle of the night… Mycroft was sure that hadn't changed since he'd been a child.

Now his little brother beamed at them. “No scratched-out eyes? No _black_ eyes? No hair-pulling? Nobody's crying? I'm proud of you two.”

Mycroft grinned and Mrs Hudson giggled, and then the three of them had tea, and it was surprisingly nice to chat with a witty, nosy Mrs Hudson.

## ***

Sherlock had brought enough clothes and supplements over from Baker Street to not have to go there to get something for the next couple of days. He had brought the stuff into the guest room closest to Mycroft's bedroom. It would have probably been a little too quick to sleep in his brother's bed right now as they had to take things slow and he wouldn’t have wanted to accidentally bump into him during sleep, and he needed a room to show to John or whoever came along anyway.

Now he got up from his bed where he had had a quick nap to see if his brother was up and ready for lunch.

When Mrs Hudson had left them alone, Mycroft had looked rather exhausted again, and Sherlock had insisted on him having a nap in his bed. The couch was comfortable but they couldn’t risk Mycroft falling from it when he turned in his sleep. As long as the stitches were in, he had to be extremely careful. And once they were out… Sherlock hoped they would be able to explore each other just a bit. Only three more days until they could begin with it. Cross the line. Commit a crime… The stupidest crime in the books, as far as Sherlock was concerned… Whose business was it if two adult brothers, geniuses above all, got physical with each other? Nobody would be taking advantage of the other one. And nobody would get hurt.

Well, he _hoped_ nobody would… He wasn't exactly an expert in sexual acts… And neither was Mycroft.

During the past days, he had added a few interesting sites to his browser history. He knew the mechanics theoretically but he had wanted to at least thoroughly watch them being performed once. He had watched a bit of porn before, just out of curiosity, gay and straight, but it didn’t hurt to be informed better before he and Mycroft got to actually doing these things.

What he had seen had simultaneously aroused and embarrassed him when thinking he would be performing these actions with his brother. It was really something to wrap his mind around… It scared and horrified him in the same measures as it excited him. And he knew he would be terribly nervous in the beginning. But the fact that it was exactly as foreign to his brother as it was to him was comforting… And of course they were geniuses. They would figure it out.

And right now, they had to finally start getting acquainted to being alone with each other. Until John would show up to check on them…

## ***

“Mmm…” Sherlock made and Mycroft smiled.

“She can cook, your dear Mrs Hudson, that's for sure.” He ate another bite of the lasagne and made a very pleasant face. Sherlock had reheated the food and they were eating in Mycroft's large, rather unused looking kitchen. It was bigger than 221b, Sherlock estimated.

“I had planned to have soup for lunch and pasta for dinner,” he threw in, making sure Mycroft didn’t believe that without his landlady's meal they would be starving.

“And I would have loved it. Tomorrow then, hm?”

“Mummy wasn't right. I _can_ cook if I have to!”

“I never doubted that, little brother! But really, I can do my part as well. I'm recovering.”

“No. You are an invalid so I'll have to stay here and make sure you won't wither and die,” Sherlock said sternly.

“Oh yes, of course. That's a good cover story.”

They smiled at each other, and Sherlock realised that Mycroft was looking a lot better now that he was at home and had just had a nice long nap.

“I'll miss Ingrid though,” the older man said thoughtfully.

Sherlock had bought a huge flower arrangement and chocolates for her in Mycroft's favour and she had almost smiled at them. Sherlock had suspected that her cheeks had blushed but it was hard to tell.

“She should work for the government. Everything would suddenly work completely smoothly,” he said between two bites.

“She would chase all the imbeciles away,” Mycroft said dreamily.

“You would work in peaceful, efficient silence.”

Mycroft nodded, his expression getting serious. “I just hope… Elizabeth and Edwin won't neglect the security of Sherrinford.”

Sherlock knew Mycroft had spoken to his colleagues in person two days before leaving the hospital. And before that, Anthea had been in constant contact with them. He had long ago realised that she wasn’t just a pretty but dumb assistant. She was Mycroft's right hand and he knew his brother trusted her unconditionally. Somehow he suddenly didn’t like the thought even though he knew it was silly. They could be grateful for this woman's efficiency.

“Anything wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. And they do know how important it is to contain her. The PM will have their guts for garters if she breaks loose under their nose again.” And of course not even their parents were allowed to visit her. Only the staff. Which was hopefully not compromised…

“He was very close to have mine,” Mycroft confessed. “And I wouldn’t have blamed him…”

“It was _not_ your fault,” Sherlock said pointedly. “They fucked it up – the governor and his lot.”

“And he paid for it. And so did his wife…”

“Don't say now her mother was right to stab you!”

Mycroft sighed. “No. Of course she wasn't. But I do understand her… If anything happened to you, I would search for someone to blame as well.” He took another bite of the food, chewing grimly.

“You would probably be a tad more subtle with your revenge though…” Sherlock grimaced. “Sorry. I didn’t want to make fun of that. It was… terrible.”

“And yet we wouldn’t be here together like this without it.”

“There is always a silver lining you mean?”

Mycroft smiled and reached out to touch his hand. “It's the most silver lining of all.” Sherlock grinned and gasped when Mycroft pressed his fingers rather hard. “And Sherlock – I don't want you to change because of this. To think everything through before you speak it out. Just be yourself.”

“You mean because you've fallen in love with me as an arrogant, snarky, sarcastic and unbearable brat you would not recognise me anymore if I tried to behave now?” Sherlock gulped down a big fork of pasta.

Mycroft chuckled. “Just so. But seriously – we have to be ourselves with each other. With all the nice and the not so nice sides. Because I truly want us to know each other.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. That makes sense. So I may say sappy stuff to you? You won't ask me if it's sentiment talking? Because, you know, it is?”

His brother sighed. “I was jealous, Sherlock. Jealous of your bond with the Watsons. I was jealous of Adler, even of Moriarty. Of everybody who drew your attention to them. It felt as if every time I'd lose you a little more. Even though I thought I had lost you long ago anyway…”

“Oh, brother. I guess we'll have to talk a lot, right?”

“I'm afraid we will. Ghastly old stuff. But I think we'll have to get over with the past to be able to move forward together. If you still want to then.”

“Ah! I wouldn’t be here if I doubted that. You won't get rid of me, except if you want me to leave.” He briefly thought what sort of a relationship they would have if they really failed in this… It was a thought to immediately forget about.

“That will never happen. But of course you won't be able to live here… forever. I want you to but…”

“I know. But we'll have four weeks ahead of us! Plenty of time to know each other inside out…” He blushed furiously and Mycroft chuckled.

“Now _that's_ something to look forward to…”

Sherlock was sick and tired of blushing like a schoolgirl. “I hope you will fuck this embarrassment out of me,” escaped his lips and Mycroft laughed out loud.

“That was naughty! But very welcome… Well, I'm afraid this part will have to wait a little longer.” Mycroft had finished eating and Sherlock was pleased to see his plate was almost empty.

“When the stitches are out…” He hurried to eat up as well.

“…we can get more tactile for sure. But I think I should still take it easy for at least another week – probably two.”

“Mycroft, you can take as much time as you need! Or want! I might have said this now but… I'm pretty frightened of all this stuff…”

Mycroft smiled but eyed him closely. “Because it is so new to you? Or because you think, deep inside, that it's… icky to do it with _me_?”

Sherlock shook his head so hard that his curls bounced. “No! I wouldn’t even consider doing it with anyone else! You are the reason I want to do it! It's just… scary…”

“That's fine. I dreamed about it for ages and it scares me too that I should finally get what I wanted all this time. It won't be easy for either of us, and I think there will be some mishaps when it happens, when we go all the way, not just fool around a bit. So I'd better be completely healthy until then.” He winked at Sherlock.

Sherlock was feeling relieved. “I'll be very careful,” he assured his brother.

Mycroft smiled. “I know you will. But in the heat of passion…”

“Somehow I can't picture any of us exactly passionate…”

“Oh, I don't know… I can definitely imagine your voice when you come…”

Sherlock blushed once more. “I'm rather quiet when I… you know…”

“So you do take matters in hand when they occur?”

“You do like to see me blush, right?” Sherlock smiled wryly. “I do. It doesn’t happen often but sometimes when I wake up… And I have to be quiet because of John… And Mrs Hudson. The walls are thin in Baker Street.”

“They should have rebuilt them thicker then,” Mycroft said with a wink. “Don't worry – here you can cry out your arousal as loud as you wish. One of the favours of not having direct neighbours.”

“So… You are loud then?”

“I never do it, Sherlock. I… sort of forced it away, my libido. But it did wake up lately. I'm sure my… equipment will be fully functioning.”

“Oh, I never doubted that… You think I could make you… scream?”

“We'll find out very soon. But Sherlock… Sorry to bring this up but since we're speaking about moaning…”

Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. “Yes?”

“Mrs Hudson told me that…” He broke off and shook his head. “No, sorry, I really shouldn’t ask.”

“Oh. Irene…” Sherlock took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. After typing a few times he put it away. “I never answered her. I told John the opposite to make him feel better after he confessed that he had been texting with a woman when Mary was still alive. Little did we know then who that was… Anyway. I blocked her number now. She meant nothing to me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled rather sadly. “I don't believe that. Back then…”

“Back then she confused me. I did… imagine it. I was sure I was gay but… Even a gay man can be drawn in by a woman if she's aggressive enough in that sense. And she was…”

“So you _were_ tempted.” Mycroft clearly tried to not sound bitter but he failed.

Sherlock rubbed his hand. “I was because I was so inexperienced and she knew which strings to pull. You've met her! She played with me like I play the violin. She's an expert at this after all. But I never did anything with her. She kissing my cheek was the closest we got and there was no danger of going any further.” Was he honest? If they hadn't been interrupted that night in Baker Street, would he have given in? Just to try? See how it was – what everybody was talking about, and above all with a person who was almost as cunning as he was… He would like to say 'no' for sure but he couldn’t. He assumed he would have failed thoroughly if he had tried it though. He was _gay_ after all.

Mycroft nodded but Sherlock could see he was hurt. “It's long ago. But obviously she didn’t forget you. And you allowed her to reach out to you.”

“Because I knew I would never see her again. She was in love with me. That was… a compliment…” He knew he was only making it worse. “It will never happen again. Those two or three texts a year. That's all it was. A little sentimentality.”

“She made you look like an idiot towards me,” Mycroft said rather cruelly. “That didn’t bother you?”

“Of course it bothered me! But I… didn’t feel for you back then like you did for me. And like I do now. I would never fall for her games again, especially not now that I'm crazy for you.”

And that finally brought the smile back into his brother's face. “That's what you are?”

“As if you didn’t know… Yes. I am.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Um…”

Sherlock grew cold inside. “What now?”

“Mrs Hudson. I suppose she senses it.”

“What?!” He had not expected this. It was better than to be told that Mycroft didn’t believe him or that he was questioning his own feelings for Sherlock now as he had feared for a moment but it still wasn't good.

“She made some strange hints. Not really hints but… I think there is a rather high possibility that she knows about us. Saying you look so happy since we've reconciled and such things.”

“Fuck!”

“Language, little brother!” Mycroft grinned. “She said she knew you are in the best of hands with me. It's fine. Even if she suspects it, she won't turn it against us.”

Sherlock was still shaken. “What if she mentions it to John?!” He had planned to be a big happy family. And he still wanted to try. But nobody had to tell him it would be way too risky to try and find out what _John_ would think about their incestuous bond… He would have liked to believe John would be just as supportive. But he really didn’t know.

“I don't think she will. She's a smart lady and knows that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“And that from you?!”

“Yes, dear. That from me. I've obviously underestimated her intelligence all these years. I just mentioned it because I thought you should know it. If _I'm_ not worried, you shouldn’t be either. Well, I'd say let's clean this up and store the leftovers and then we could go to the living room?”

“ _I_ will do that and you can already find a comfortable spot on the couch. I'll be right there to entertain you.”

Mycroft stood up. “Sounds good to me. And I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know I shouldn’t still be jealous of this woman…”

“As you stated earlier – we have to talk about the past and that includes stuff like this. Just be assured that there's no reason for jealousy now. And there will never be. And by the way – isn’t that Lady Bird rather fond of _you_?” He stapled the plates to bring them to the sink. Thank God Mycroft had a dishwasher.

Mycroft shuddered. “Don't remind me of that! It's ghastly!”

Sherlock faked a grim expression. “I do think I'm still jealous of her.” He really wasn't. The poor old girl might try to seduce his brother until her hair turned completely white but she would never get him.

And then Mycroft was standing very close to him. “Nobody will take me away from you. And nobody should try to steal you from me.”

Sherlock's heart beat faster. “So possessive, brother mine?”

“Very.”

“Good!”

And then they finally kissed.

## ***

Sherlock smiled when Mycroft made a small, humming noise of content after placing his head on the pillow the detective had prepped up for him on his lap. Of course he would have loved to have him resting on him without a cushion between them but the angle would be bad for Mycroft's neck and Sherlock's muscular thighs didn’t make for overly comfortable pillows he assumed.

Mycroft was wearing casual black jog pants and a matching black sweatshirt. Sherlock had bought a few sets for him with Mycroft's credit card. Not only because he didn’t need any pressure on his wound but because Sherlock didn’t want him to wear his fancy suits at home no matter how good he looked in them. He knew Mycroft usually did. But here was nobody he had to impress and it should feel like a home after all, not another office…

“I could get used to this,” Mycroft mumbled with closed eyes.

Sherlock's long fingers were drawing patterns on his cheeks and forehead. And once in a while he ever so lightly stroked over his brother's finely shaped lips.

“That's very nice,” Mycroft said, sounding sleepy. “I wish I wasn't so tired all the time. It can't still be from the operation!”

“It partly is, certainly. But I think it's even more because of general exhaustion.” Mycroft's work schedule would have been enough for three very busy people. That couldn’t be healthy in the long run. Never getting enough sleep, always being under pressure… Adding the blood loss, the long narcosis and the fact that the spleen had been cut… It was no wonder he was tired.

“Yeah. Perhaps I should be grateful for suffering this nasty cut. Without this forced break, the next thing might have been a heart attack or a stroke.”

Sherlock cringed. But he knew his brother was right. “You need to take care of yourself, Mycroft. I need you to be alive and kicking.”

Mycroft smiled. “How many times did I think the same about you? Running into every danger. Getting shot! Not even mentioning the stuff you did to yourself…”

“Yeah. I'm a hypocrite, get used to it.”

“We all are, Sherlock, one way or the other.”

“True.”

They were silent for a moment, but it was a companionable silence.

“It is not bad to give up control for a while, huh?” Sherlock asked then. “Let me pet you, do your housework.” He pointedly patted Mycroft's chest.

Mycroft chuckled. “I should have thought of having a uniform made for you. Something black and tight and with very little fabric.”

“Oh! Now we're getting somewhere! A uniform fetish?”

“Nah. Not usually.” Mycroft winked at him. “But you would look fetching in it. And about giving up control – I honestly don't know when I last really had it.”

Sherlock thought about that for a while. “It turned our worlds around, this situation. Me, remembering Victor and Eurus. You, feeling so much unnecessary guilt. Going through hell, the three of us.”

“It seems your doctor is coping best of us.”

 _'Your doctor'_. Sherlock didn’t exactly like the sound of this phrase. “But only because the worst already happened to him before…” Losing his wife thanks to Sherlock's loose mouth…

Mycroft ignored this part. “I'll never get it, Sherlock. Why you and John forgave her for nearly killing you. How he could still be so crazy for her after what she did to you.”

Sherlock sighed. “It wasn't easy. For him it was worse than for me. I knew she didn’t want to injure me so badly.” Mary had turned the gun away from his heart in the last moment. But she hadn't aimed very well for an assassin who had been able to shoot a coin which was whirling through the air…

“And how did she expect to get out of the situation after you woke up again?”

“I'm not sure she knew that herself. But… I could see why she did it. She didn’t see another way out. And she belonged to John so…” And he had liked her. He had been jealous of her because she had drawn all of John's attention to herself, away from him, after he had been longing to get back what he and his best friend had had before his 'death'. Mary had destroyed that unwillingly. But she had been like him in some regards. A female Sherlock. Not quite. But similar in many ways… And so he had seen her almost like… a sister… He said none of that, fearing Mycroft would get it wrong. He had heard how much Mycroft really hated her. And with the next statement Mycroft showed him that he was indeed very not fond of his relationship with John…

“Everything you did you did for John. You even killed for him…”

“Well… I didn’t see another way out in this situation either. Have I ever apologised for it?” He knew very well he hadn't. What a lousy brother he had been…

“For sedating me at our parents' kitchen table and stealing my laptop to betray the country? I don't think so.”

Sherlock was very grateful that his tone had sounded rather mocking than pissed off. “Well, I do it now. Sorry.” And he _was_ very sorry about it. And all at once he remembered that he had checked his brother's pulse more thoroughly than the other's…

“Apology accepted. It was horrible, you know…” The older man visibly shuddered at the memory of watching Sherlock shooting someone in the head from his seat in the helicopter.

“Of course it was.” He had not enjoyed it. But it had also not bothered him. He had never thought about what this fact made him. Well, a sociopath, obviously… He had never denied being that, had he?

“But you don't regret it. Killing him.”

Sherlock stroked over his chest. “No. He had it coming. His death has made the world a bit better I like to think. But I _am_ sorry for the way I treated you. And that I made you send me away…”

“I had a plan, you know? I would have gotten you out. But I was sure anyway you would be able to escape.”

Sherlock had known that from the start. Wondering now why he had been so presumptuous to believe Mycroft would save him. His brother would have had enough reason to drop him then. And actually long before this.

The troublemaker. The one who had mocked him with the diet he didn’t need. The one who had – albeit in a 'high' state – twisted his arm and pushed him against a door during exactly this case… The memory and the fact he had never apologised for that let him cringe.

Mycroft looked up to him, probably deducing his thoughts correctly but sparing him to pick up on it. Sherlock wouldn’t have brought it out now so he was grateful for it. “I have all the faith in the world in you. And I still wish you hadn't done it. Killing for John and his wife.”

There was no way to not get this straight right now. “You're not jealous of him too, right? Not in a romantic sense? I've never seen him that way. And neither has he!”

“I realised you didn't want to be his lover, yes. But still there's something unhealthy about this friendship. And John? He admires the ground you're walking on. And now that he's a widower… You get along so well with his child. Perhaps he does consider getting closer to you.” Mycroft seemed to get lost in his suspicions that had seemed to just overrun him. “Sometimes he doesn't behave like a friend does!” he accused, surprisingly irrationally.

“How…” Sherlock broke off.

Mycroft huffed out a rather unamused laugh. “How would I know, yes.” His tone was flat and resigned.

“I'm sorry…” Sherlock felt he was starting to mess this up and that couldn’t happen. He might not have considered getting so close to Mycroft before he had gotten injured but now he was very sure he wanted it. But this wasn't a good start… This was fucking it up royally… “Sorry for the stupid thing I just almost said. Sorry for hurting you back then in Baker Street because of Magnussen. Sorry for being one hell of a brother…” He was close to crying now.

The older man raised his hand to touch Sherlock's, and Sherlock took his one eagerly, entwining their fingers. “Don't be. You were high when you grabbed my arm. And nothing was ever easy between us.”

Sherlock nodded sadly. What an understatement. And being high was no excuse for treating Mycroft like this. Especially not because it had felt damn good, this rude demonstration of power…

Mycroft rubbed his forefinger with his thumb. “We both knew it would take time and it wouldn’t be easy. We're surrounded by minefields, brother dear. Our past is filled with resentments and drama and rather nasty memories. We can only hope it won't overpower what we will hopefully have.”

“We won't let them! But please take my word: I never fancied John as a lover, and he might admire me and perhaps idolise me, at least he did. Now he just rolls his eyes at most things I say or do… But he certainly doesn’t want to, to, _screw_ me. And we both know there's something else you don't like about him…” They had to talk about this and now seemed to be a good moment for something that didn’t have any good moment.

Of course Mycroft understood at once what he was talking about. “I assume you don’t like it either!” he all but hissed, the placating tone gone again within the blink of an eye.

Sherlock sighed unhappily. “No, of course not. It wasn’t nice to be bashed up by him. Twice. But I did understand his reaction both times, Mycroft. He's a soldier at heart. He has a temper. And sometimes he doesn’t find words to express his nasty feelings and then…”

“There is no excuse for what he did to you,” Mycroft said, his voice suddenly cold. “I only got to know about it much later and had to realise you'd already forgiven him. But if he ever does it again…”

Sherlock was torn by very different feelings. But he couldn’t deny that mostly he was thrilled and excited about Mycroft being totally Icemannish if it came to defend him. He had not witnessed him being like this before. But of course he had known about his protective streak towards him. Once he had loathed it but that had changed completely. It felt rather nice now. “He won't. But if he does and without a really good reason, you may avenge me.”

“That's not funny, Sherlock. I won't watch him thrashing you again. Nothing you could do justifies that. It was another reason to think that you and he could end up as… more than friends as friends might not forgive something like this.”

“We didn’t, and we won't. In fact I ended up with somebody else, being more than… brothers.” It was a rather transparent attempt at changing the subject to something more pleasant but it backfired unexpectedly.

“Yes. Isn't that the ultimate breach of taboo? The only rule you could still break after…”

“…killing Magnussen. Is that what you think? That it's just another thrill for me?” Sherlock felt deeply hurt, his grip around Mycroft's fingers loosened. This was not at all what his feelings were about.

He had never experienced a conversation with so many different feelings in such a short time. And most of them had been nasty… His heart felt like a broken roundabout.

Mycroft sat up, turned carefully and pulled Sherlock in. “I'm so sorry. Jealousy is a nasty feeling. It brings out the worst in me. And perhaps it is just still hard to believe that you suddenly feel for me like I feel for you.”

Sherlock melted at once, rubbing his face against Mycroft's neck. “I think we just got a glimpse at how much we'll have to work on. I wish we could… be closer so I could prove you how much I want this.”

“Okay. Our good friend Doctor Watson will come in… two hours?”

“Yes. Making sure you're okay and we're not killing each other.”

Mycroft smiled wryly. “I hope we won't. Anyway… When he's left, we'll go upstairs and…” He winked and it made Sherlock tingle. But…

“We can't have sex today!”

“No. But we can be nice to each other.”

“Oh. Nice sounds good!”

Mycroft smiled. “Very good. And if you don't mind, I would like to have a nap with my head on your lap now.”

“My lap is your lap.”

“I hope so, dear brother, I really do.”

Sherlock grinned and shook his head, but of course he was delighted. “You're incorrigible, Mycroft.”

“And proud of it.”

And despite every conversation on this day being like a very volatile bomb, Sherlock felt very good right now.

## ***

“Hey, Sherlock, Mycroft. Everything all right?”

“Come in, John. Yes. As you can see, we're all good.”

“Give Sherlock your coat, Doctor… Apologies, John.” He didn’t want this man to be in his house. But he had to accept he was an integral part of Sherlock's life. You didn’t get one without the other, not even as Sherlock's brother… But their conversation had disturbed him thoroughly. He had catastrophized and overreacted. Hurt Sherlock. In the end - all because of John Watson. Well, he was aware that this wasn't exactly fair…

John didn’t sense his thoughts but smiled brightly at him. “You look a lot better. How's the wound?”

“I do feel better. But I just slept for quite some time. And I think it's okay.” He had taken a brief shower when he had woken up, making sure his wound was covered properly. He felt refreshed and rather alive now. And he was determined to let this difficult day end in a very friendly manner. He could as well start with being nice to John. He knew Sherlock would watch him very closely now. “It's nice of you to drop by,” he said and didn’t miss that Sherlock looked rather relieved.

“I told you I would! And I brought a few notes for you, Sherlock. Clients who showed up. Perhaps you could have a look. I summed their requests up as well as I could.”

“Oh. Yes, why not. If you don't mind?” he turned to Mycroft.

“Of course I don't. Why don't you go into the winter garden so you can concentrate?”

Sherlock seemed very reluctant to leave him and John alone.

But John nodded. “Yes, do that. Perhaps you can call some of them back right now. And I'll have a look at the wound if your brother allows.”

“Good idea,” Mycroft confirmed, and finally Sherlock shrugged and left, looking not exactly pleased but unsure how to talk himself out of it without giving them away. Mycroft turned to the doctor again. “Come, John. Let's go to the living room. Sherlock made tea.”

“Oh. Is it drinkable?”

Mycroft grinned. “Surprisingly enough – yes.”

“You never know what he puts in it…” John mused grimly.

“Do tell… I do remember the Christmas punch…”

“Yeah. I had nothing to do with it by the way.”

Mycroft had suspected this. The whole Magnussen-disaster had been Sherlock's idea alone. But he had done it all for John and Mary. And damn, he knew he had to get over it. He had planned to be nice to John and his daughter to please Sherlock, hadn't he? But perhaps the real problem was that he still feared Sherlock would do anything for John. Even kill someone… And he couldn’t guarantee that he could save him again. Eurus wouldn’t interfere again for sure…

He sat down on the couch and gestured at John to take a seat, too.

John nodded and placed himself in an armchair, and then he bent forward. “I never thanked you,” he said, sounding serious.

“Thank me? For… Oh. You're referring to Sherrinford.”

“Yeah. You fooled me at first. Couldn’t fool him.”

“Who says he was right? Perhaps I indeed wanted him to shoot you?” He had no idea why he had said this. Sherlock would be so not amused…

John narrowed his eyes but then he grinned. “No, you didn’t. And I wouldn’t have let him shoot you.”

It was true. John had tried to keep Sherlock from doing it. Mycroft sighed. “It was a horrible situation. And we both didn’t see the way out he saw. Pretending to play along just to surprise her by destroying her game. He's always been better with people.”

“Even though you are the smart one,” John said with a smirk.

Mycroft shrugged and smiled wryly. “In some ways I guess I am. But in other ways, he is much smarter than me.”

“Cunning, you mean…”

“Oh yes.” Mycroft heard how fond he sounded, and John heard it, too.

He smiled. “I'm glad how things turned out. Nobody got killed and now you and he are getting along so much better. It's great.”

It was suddenly rather hard to dislike this man. But Mycroft couldn’t let it lie. “Why did you do that, John? Injure him? I was there when your wife was killed. Sherlock provoked Norbury, oh yes. He got carried away on his deduction-high. But he didn’t see this coming. And Mary… She got in the way of the bullet before anyone could do anything.”

John had paled. But he nodded. “Yes. I know. I told him. I apologised. More than once. Still I know it's unforgivable really. But he did forgive me, because he loves me. As a friend. And I love him the same way. But I also loved Mary.”

“Even though she almost killed him.”

John swallowed. “It took me months to forgive her even though he forgave her very quickly. But she was my wife. The mother of my child. And this one situation took her away from me. And from Rosie. She will grow up without her mother. Can't you see why I lost it? When I had to witness how he seemed to get down again, taking drugs, as if Mary's sacrifice was worth nothing to him?”

“For a purpose.”

“Yes. Of course. And in the end I saved him.”

 Mycroft nodded. “You did. And I'm grateful for it. But John – if you ever lay a hand on him again…”

“Won't happen.” John shook his head vehemently. “You think I liked to do it? That I got off on it? Oh no… I wasn't… myself, as stupid as it sounds. And don't tell him but… I'm going to therapy again. Mainly to be able to control my anger. Anger management, if you want.”

“Oh. I see. But there can always be a situation again when things get really difficult…”

“I won't hurt him again. I'm glad he took me back. One day I might, you know, meet someone. Someone good for me and my girl. But he'll always be my best friend. And I'm not going to hit him again.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I really hope so, John.”

“Because otherwise nobody will find my body.” The doctor had said it as if it was a given. Which it really was.

“Yes,” Mycroft said very quietly. “Not even Sherlock.”

John stared at him for a long moment and then he nodded. “I understand that. Better than you might think. Well, now that we're clear, show me your wound?”

Mycroft was taken aback. But then he nodded too and leaned back, pulling up his sweatshirt.

John carefully lifted the bandage. “Yeah. Looks really good. Almost ready for removing the stitches.”

“But it will leave a pretty ugly scar, won't it?” The thought had only popped up now.

“Yes, but it will get paler and paler. Of course, with your skin type, it might be rather prominent for quite a while.” The doctor put the bandage in place again carefully.

“Well, I hardly go to the beach,” Mycroft said drily. He knew Sherlock had lots of rather big scars himself. The torture welts of Serbia on his back (and how hard had it been to watch this being done to him) and the shotgun wound from Mary for example would still be visible. So hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t mind Mycroft's belly looking as if someone had tried to fillet him.

John grinned. “With all your body hair, nobody will look at the scar.”

“Careful, John.” But the doctor had a point. He wondered what Sherlock thought about _that_. But of course he had seen it already – every time John had examined the wound in his presence. Mycroft had been shaved around the stab wound for the operation but the rest of his upper body was covered in black hair and Sherlock couldn’t have missed that. Obviously it had not turned him off.

“Ah, just teasing you. Well, I will look if His Majesty has some orders for me. Are we good?”

Mycroft looked at him thoroughly. “Yes, John. We are. For now.”

The blond nodded. “As I said – won't happen again.”

It better wouldn’t…

## ***

Sherlock had never craved for being touched – quite the opposite actually. Even a dry kiss on the cheek or the odd embrace had made him feel awkward. But since kissing Mycroft and holding hands with him had been so nice, he wasn't exactly surprised how great this felt.

They had only gotten rid of their shirts, both knowing they couldn’t go very far now. At least Mycroft couldn’t… And it would hardly be fair to demand from him to take care of Sherlock's throbbing erection, so far more or less hidden beneath his embarrassingly tenting trousers and pants. After all they had agreed on being nice to each other and not have sex.

But it felt so _good_ to touch his brother and get touched by him. Mycroft had the same long, sensitive fingers that Sherlock had, albeit a tad rounder than Sherlock's manly, edgy digits. Large hands that covered a lot of goose-bump-coated skin, warm hands that made Sherlock tingle from head to toe.

And his own hands weren't being idle. He was stroking and probing as much skin as he could reach, of course leaving out the bandaged part. But he reverently caressed the beautifully hairy skin of Mycroft's chest and his throat got dry when his fingertips found an erect nipple and Mycroft moaned into his mouth, because of course they were kissing non-stop.

Over was the taut and hurtful conversation, the problems of their past nearly all brought to light in a way too-short time, not solved but uncovered so the wounds they had caused could heal. And they would; Sherlock was sure about it now. This was what he had longed for forever without even knowing. This closeness, this tenderness, loaded with raw desire on both sides. The desire had to wait but Sherlock knew it didn’t matter. They both knew it would be fulfilled.

And then Mycroft parted his legs by pushing his thigh against the space between them and a moment later Sherlock cried into his brother's mouth when his hard cock was roughly nudged by Mycroft's leg and he spilled into his pants.

“What… Oh… Fuck…” He knew he couldn’t have formed a coherent sentence if his life had depended on it.

Mycroft chuckled. “Sorry, little brother. But I knew you needed release.”

“But… Oof… What about you?” Of course he had felt that Mycroft was hard as well. Hard and damn big…

“I can control it. I've done that so many years… Do you think I wanted to get hard every time we spoke with each other? Or when I saw your naked and very appealing behind in Buckingham Palace? I needed to be able to force it down, quite literally… And I don't want to risk anything now. I let it get hard but just to feel the thrill of excitement. You know the feeling, brother, I'm sure… But once the stitches have gone and my doctor and your doctor say it's okay to move freely, you can make me come as well. Still careful at the start though…”

Sherlock had recovered a bit during this speech. “Damn… You made me come… just so…” What if it always went like this? He, coming at the slightest touch? Their encounters would be very short then…

Of course Mycroft deduced his thoughts. “Don't worry, Sherlock. As quickly as you just came, as quickly you will be ready again. And even if not, we'll have many, many enjoyable hours together.”

Sherlock kissed his nose. “I should hope so. And now _I_ am tired…”

“The typical male reaction to orgasming. And I wouldn't mind a nap either.”

“Fine. But what about…” He glanced down on Mycroft's body.

“It's gone already. Mind powers, Sherlock.”

“I don't seem to have them. Not in this way.”

“That's why _I'm_ the smart one…”

Sherlock giggled. “I loathe you.”

“What was that?” Mycroft pinched his side in an uncharacteristic touch of playfulness.

“I love you.” Sherlock's eyes sprang open. He had just said it!

Mycroft's smile could have lightened up London in the cloudiest, foggiest night. “Oh, Sherlock… I love you too.”

And now Sherlock was a hundred percent sure everything would be fine. He kissed his brother tenderly.

And then he realised that all of a sudden he was feeling a tad uncomfortable though. Sticky, to be precise. “I guess I need a shower and new pants before my nap,” he rumbled.

Mycroft chuckled next to him with closed eyes. “The price of having no self-control, little brother.”

“You are lucky I can't pinch _you_ for that.”

“Which is why I can say it now – carnival license.”

“You've always seemed to have that…” Sherlock grumbled.

“Ah. I guess you're mixing up the two of us, dear.”

“You will always have the last word, won't you?”

“I will try, Sherlock, I will try dearly.”

And Sherlock thought that he would never cease to enjoy _this_ Mycroft – the funny, teasing, sexy one. Even more treats to love.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More talking and finally a bit of smut :)

“Ooooh, Sherlock!”

Sherlock winced at the high tone but he grinned. He hadn't expected such a reaction but then… for years she had wanted him to get together with John. And since that couldn’t happen… “I'm happy to see you, too, Mrs Hudson.”

His grin deepened when the old lady embraced him. He had just entered 221 Baker Street. He was supposed to take care of three cases and then he would go back to Mycroft. The detective did hope to solve the cases in record time… Not that this would be anything new after all.

John looked a tad disturbed when their eyes met. “Um, I'm here as well…”

The landlady let Sherlock go and patted the doctor's arm. “I know you are, dear. But I haven't seen him for… two days!”

“Yeah, that's long,” the blond said drily. “Well, you're coming, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded. “In a second. First I have to properly thank this lady for her extraordinary lasagne.”

“All right then. I'll tell the client you'll be there in a moment.” Looking a little confused, the doctor went upstairs.

Sherlock was grateful for once that John saw but didn’t observe. But to be fair, not even he would have deduced what was going on just because of Mrs Hudson's enthusiasm.

“Come in,” she whispered, dragging him to her flat.

“I can't let them wait for long.”

“Just a minute.”

“All right.” After all these years, Sherlock did know it was pointless to argue with her. Especially since finding himself in the truck of her car…

He sat down at her kitchen table and smiled when she poured him a cup of tea in a mug covered with a red-hearts-print. So much for not confining in her as Mycroft had planned. This was also pointless. He had seen at once that she indeed knew it, and for a reason that was beyond him, she was pleased…

“How's he doing?” she asked with glistening eyes.

“Better every day. Tomorrow the stitches will be removed.” He really couldn’t wait…

“Oh, I see,” she said, winking.

“Mrs Hudson…”

“Oh, don't you worry. I won't say a word.”

“John…”

“The poor boy. Totally oblivious.” She sipped at her tea.

“How is it possible that you…” He wasn't allowed to finish this sentence either.

“Oh, Sherlock… You never knew how much I worried about you. Always pretending to not need anyone. To be better all alone.”

_'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.'_

_Bullshit…_

“I knew you were not like this, deep inside. You needed someone to save you.”

A little melodramatic but probably not entirely untrue. And he knew damn well that Mycroft had tried to save him all his life… “You thought it would be John.”

“For a long time. But… He obviously didn’t lie when he said he wasn't gay. Even though I think he was tempted in the beginning… But… Sometimes he was very nasty to you.”

“How…” Sherlock broke off. He had never spoken about that with her but he wasn't surprised she knew it. “He did have his reasons...” He was a little tired of discussing this subject.

The past two days had been filled with tenderness but also with talking. He estimated they had gone through all the sore spots now. Dragged all the hurt and the insults and misunderstandings and cruelties to the light to try and erase their impact. Which was not possible of course. But he could feel the improvement. They would never forget all the nastiness that had happened between them. The state Mycroft had found him in too often in his youth – high and aggressive. Sherlock's feeling to not be taken seriously by the older brother. The unnecessary and unjustified weight jokes. The jealousy, once more. All the hurt he had caused Mycroft. They wouldn’t forget it but they would learn to cover it with the love they had for each other, and certainly they wouldn’t repeat any of it.

And Sherlock had profoundly apologised for actually everything. There wasn’t a lot Mycroft had to say sorry for. It had been Sherlock who had destroyed their brotherly bond out of rebellion, boredom and the feeling of being abandoned when Mycroft had left home so early to hardly return because of his studies and then his work responsibilities. Because, after all, child Sherlock had loved his big brother a lot.

They had started to get to know each other better, but Sherlock also started to discover truths about himself he had never considered. He was healing as much as their bond was healing. And the tone had become lighter. Mycroft smiled more often. And Sherlock would never get tired of seeing him smile.

Mrs Hudson nodded after being silent for a while. “I know he had. But there's no excuse for being violent against the ones we love.”

Sherlock wondered if she was talking about herself. It had been him who had freed her of her criminal husband. Had he abused her? Sherlock felt the urge of having him executed once more… He didn’t ask. It wouldn’t have made anything better. “That's true but… Well… My brother told me the same.”

“In slightly different words I'm sure. John should be careful…”

“He won't do it again!”

“But if he does…”

Sherlock winced. He was quite sure what would happen then. But he could feel that John and he were fine.

“He goes to therapy,” she whispered.

“Well, that's nothing new…” The last therapist hadn't been an exactly good choice though… and none of them had ever been very helpful.

“He tries to get rid of his anger issues. I heard him talking on the phone lately when he came down the stairs. I wasn't eavesdropping!”

“Of course not!” Sherlock winked. “I see. Well, he seems fine. I want him to bring Rosie to Mycroft's house soon.”

She tilted her head. “I can't picture your brother having her on his knees.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea anyway at the moment. She could kick him and…”

“You love him very much.”

Why deny it? “Yes. Strange, isn't it?”

“No. You said I wanted it to be John – your knight. But since he can't be it… there was only one man left. As I knew from the start you were gay. Poor Miss Hooper…”

“She's fine now. I guess telling me that… you know… helped her.” He and Molly had had a rather long talk after Sherrinford. It hadn't been easy. She had cried a bit. But now they were good. Friends like they had always been.

“I'm glad to hear that. But anyway… You're safe with your brother. He would never raise his hand against you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, remembering the godforsaken day of him twisting Mycroft's arm. He had said sorry, more than once now. And he knew Mycroft didn’t resent him for it. Still it had been unforgivable, high or not. “No, he wouldn’t.”

“He's your protector.”

“He is. And I want to be his.”

“Oh, this is so romantic!”

Sherlock shook his head in awe. “You will never cease to surprise me. But listen… Nobody may know about it. Not John, not Molly, not Greg, not… God, our parents. They would…” The thought was disturbing to say the least.

“I can imagine. I told you – your secret is safe with me.”

Sherlock emptied his cup and got up. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. For truly and continually being on my side. On our side now. I need to go upstairs now or John will come and get me.”

“Come over again soon, dear. And now be the clever detective.”

Sherlock would have to be as his brain needed a new challenge. And then he would go home to be his brother's keeper like Mycroft had always been his, if he had wanted it or not.

“Oh, and Sherlock?”

He turned to her. “Yes?”

“I made a cake for you and your brother. Don't forget to fetch it before you leave.”

He smiled and walked back to her to peck on her on the cheek. “You're simply gorgeous, Mrs Hudson.”

She giggled and patted his arm. “And you're my best son, Sherlock.”

## *****

“John. Rosamund.” Mycroft nodded towards the Watsons.

The girl looked rather sceptical. Sherlock couldn’t blame her. Mycroft was wearing his new casual look with black jog pants and a grey sweatshirt but he looked as intimidating as he did in his finest suit if Sherlock looked at him objectively – which wasn't very easy of course. But it wasn't the suits that made his brother look respectable (and yes, Sherlock knew that he had never respected him before recent events nonetheless), powerful and frightening – and very sexy even though Rosie wouldn’t be aware of _that_... It was the man himself, sick or not, suit or casual wear.

“Come in, John. Hello Rosie. Come here?”

Sherlock took her when John handed her over to get rid of his jacket. She was dressed in stylish orange and her fine hair had been tousled by the wind.

She patted his cheek and he smiled. His look met his brother's and the light-blue eyes were slightly narrowed.

He swallowed.

_It won't work – my plan for the unconventional little family. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like to see me with her. Or John._

But he shrugged it off. It was the first time, for God's sake. And he really didn’t expect his brother to play the funny uncle for a baby. _He_ wasn’t good at playing it either… It was nothing… Holmesish… But he wanted some… fondness. It would be good for Mycroft.

“So – stitches are gone?” John asked, straightening his also rather messy hair.

Mycroft turned his gaze to him. “Yes. Looks all fine, they said. Inside and outside.”

“Nurse Ingrid had a look after the doctor,” Sherlock said with a grin while they were walking to the living room, where tea and biscuits were waiting for their visitors. Well, for John, at least. And of course Sherlock. “I guess she doesn’t trust his judgement.”

John chuckled. “She's really something else. Wouldn’t want to mess with her.”

“I guess so,” Mycroft said smoothly and just a tad maliciously. “You would find yourself on your back with a hand around your throat.”

This wasn’t going well at all. Sherlock cursed himself for asking John and Rosie over. But he had really thought they had sorted it out. Stupid… Talking about something and being confronted with it were two very different things. It was his own fault of course. Time after time he had shown his brother that John was more important to him than Mycroft, the culmination being the Magnussen disaster. The violence against Mycroft, the sedating, the betrayal and worst of all the murder in front of his terrified brother's eyes, forcing him to send Sherlock away to keep him out of prison. And that wasn't even the worst – it was the moment Mycroft thinking Sherlock would be able to shoot him without blinking because he would never think of shooting John… It made his heart ache.

John was grinning wryly at the older man, obviously searching for the right answer. Sherlock was sure Mycroft had threatened him when they had last met even though neither of them had mentioned it. “Two hands, I suppose,” John finally said, nodding.

And Sherlock was thrilled about the genuine smirk that pulled at Mycroft's lips for a second. “No. She would only need one hand.”

And John chuckled and somehow Sherlock had hope again. “Yeah, I guess so. She's scary. So – you mind if I look at your fancy stomach again, too?”

Sherlock burst out laughing and startled Rosie, who stared at him with wide eyes before hitting him on the forehead.

“Well done, Miss Rosamund. Reprimand Mr Tactless in favour of us all,” Mycroft said drily, and Sherlock could have kissed him.

## ***

They were staring at each other - the tall man on the couch and the toddler on the soft blanket Sherlock had put onto to the floor for it.

They had drunk tea and eaten the biscuits, and then Sherlock had received a call from Lestrade (and Mycroft could hear him talking during the door of the winter garden) and only moments later, John had been called by his sister, retreating into the corridor with an apologetic look.

So Mycroft was alone with Rosie. When John had left the room, she had been babbling along in her incomprehensible baby speech, smashing her doll onto the floor with surprising vigour (and Mycroft had thought, _'like father, like daughter'_ and had felt a tad ashamed) but now she was sitting still, looking up to him with huge blue eyes.

Mycroft didn’t say anything but he returned the look. She was a beautiful child, he had to admit. Blond curls, her eyes questioning and too adult for her young age. Like Sherlock's had been when he had been little… He couldn’t say if she looked more like the doctor or like his wife. Mary, probably.

It was hard for him to watch Sherlock with her, as much as he disliked it. They looked indeed like a family – Sherlock, John and Little Rosie.

Was it that what made him feel so upset about their presence in Sherlock's life? The knowledge Mycroft could never give him something like this? A child of his own? A real family? A relationship that could be lived out freely? Or was it just this bloody jealousy and feeling stupidly neglected by the fact that other people had Sherlock's affection, too?

“It's not your fault,” he mumbled. “Of course it isn't. Not that Sherlock loves you and not that your father is…” He broke off, feeling rather silly to talk to someone who didn’t understand a word, and because he didn’t know what exactly John _was_. He wasn't one-dimensional for sure. Sherlock's saviour and his abuser. A danger for his brother and probably the one besides Mycroft who loved Sherlock most. A faithful sidekick and the one who had kicked Sherlock into the ground.

Mycroft wouldn’t even know that if he hadn't read the confessions of Culverton Smith, the man who had nearly killed his brother. But he had seen the attack in the restaurant years ago thanks to the CCTV cameras. He had seen that coming but Sherlock had been so arrogant on the day he had returned, so convinced John would welcome him with open arms after grieving for two years, being deceived by the man who was his best friend.

His brother had been wrong – Mycroft had definitely _not_ enjoyed seeing him getting tortured in Serbia; in fact it had almost killed him to not being able to interfere. But if he was very honest to himself, he had thought for just a very short moment, _'suits him right'_ when John had given him a headbutt before he had swallowed at the sight of Sherlock's bleeding nose and his emotional hurt in shame and sympathy…  That damn jealousy…

Anyway… It was certainly not this baby's fault that Mycroft mistrusted her father. That he could hardly look at Sherlock fussing with her. His brother had made a choice. He had chosen him. Whether or not this would be a lasting relationship remained to be seen. But he knew he had to accept the doctor and his child. They wouldn’t leave Sherlock's life so soon…

His lips twitched when Rosie crawled towards him and turned to get the doll. Then she sat down on her nappy-cushioned backside and offered the ghastly thing to him.

“What, for me?” He remembered when he'd been a child himself, seeing his – literally – baby brother play. Sherlock had never offered him his toys and he had screeched when Mycroft had taken one by himself.

He leaned forward and accepted the doll, trying to find a dry spot on it. “Thank you, Madam.”

“That means she likes you.”

Mycroft startled at Sherlock's voice. He turned to look at him. “I can't believe she has such a bad taste…”

Sherlock smiled and sat down next to him, laying his hand on his shoulder. “No. She's got the best of taste.”

Mycroft would have died for kissing him. But that would have been madness as John could come back in any second. And it would definitely feel extremely awkward to do it in the presence of the baby… But he closed his eyes when Sherlock pecked his shoulder.

“She does look appealing,” he said.

“She's a sweet girl. Very curious and open-minded.”

“Do they have a mind at all when they are so young?”

“Mycroft!”

The older man grinned. “Yes. She seems like a nice… goldfish. Even the hair colour fits.”

“You are…”

The door was pushed open. “So, sorry, took me a while. Harry,” John explained for Sherlock.

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, just wanted to chat and invite me for next weekend. Well, me and Rosie.”

“Rosie and me,” Mycroft mumbled, and grinned when Sherlock carefully nudged his arm.

John rolled his eyes playfully. “Whatever!”

“That's nice,” Sherlock said. “Family, you know, John.”

“Yes. And _my_ sister is not…” He blushed.

“A monster?” Mycroft finished his sentence drily. “True, but you don't have such a brilliant little brother either.” He sounded rather smug to his own ears. But John was used to this tone from him of course.

“Yep,” John agreed. “My life is so much easier than yours, Mycroft.”

“Well, it's hard to argue against that even though of course you have to endure him too. And don't shove me again, Sherlock, you know I'm maimed already.”

And he could see in Sherlock's eyes that his little brother would have preferred doing something else, and it made him feel warm inside.

## *****

“So – that's your definition of fresh air?” Father startled him.

Sherlock smiled around his cigarette. “We're in London.” In Mycroft's back garden to be precise.

“True…”

“Want one?” Sherlock offered his old man the package.

“Oh no! Your mother would have my guts for garters!”

Sherlock nodded. “Don't tell her you caught me.” Not that she wouldn’t smell it anyway…

“Don't worry. But you really shouldn't smoke.”

“It's my first one for weeks.”

“Oh. So bad?”

Sherlock shook his head and pulled his coat closer around himself. It was a chilly afternoon. “No. You know I adore her. But it gets a bit… too much sometimes.” He'd just had to escape for a while. He had sent an apologetic look to his brother, who had just winked with a rather resigned expression. Sherlock knew very well how much Mycroft loathed it when their mother made such a fuss about him. The usual _'Do you eat enough?'_ and _'Are you sure you can cope without me here?'_ -motherly concern, worse than ever before. Touching in a way, sure. A lot better than her nasty reaction to being told about Eurus, certainly. But overbearing to say the least. But Mycroft would be fine. He had always taken it lighter, had shown more patience. Certainly he had learned patience by dealing with him, Sherlock…

Father sighed. “Do tell. It's not easy for her, you know? You boys living so far away. Out of her reach…”

“Of her control you mean.”

“That has always been the worst for you, huh? Being controlled?”

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “It never really worked, did it?”

“Not really, no.” Father stepped closer and laid his hand on Sherlock's arm. “I'm so happy you are here, Sherlock. I can see how good it does him. I'd have never expected you to do that for your brother. Not after…” He broke off and made a _'you know best'_ gesture.

“I know. I was a brat.” Sherlock took a deep drag and blew out the smoke in circles. “I've grown up. Was about time, wasn't it?” It didn’t stress him to talk to his father about Mycroft. He knew the old man wouldn’t guess it in a million years. Neither would Mummy. Sherlock had no idea where he and Mycroft had gotten their intelligence and their deduction powers from. But certainly not from their parents.

“I guess… what happened with Eurus did help in that regard…”

“Certainly. But we could all have done without it.” That was a lie. Without it, he wouldn’t be here. He and Mycroft would have never gotten so close. There had been a high price to pay for the people who had lost their lives, and, as they had seen, for their nearest and dearest, but for him and for his brother these horrors had been worth it. Sherlock wouldn’t want to miss out on what they had now. And would have for the rest of their lives, as far as he was concerned. It was a safe bet that Mycroft wanted it, too.

“Without it I'd still think she was dead,” Father whispered.

“And it would have been better,” Sherlock added what he hadn't. For the parents, it would be.

“God, yes. I know it's a sin to say that but…”

“Nobody would blame you,” Sherlock said drily. He knew that on the few occasions the Holmes parents had visited their daughter, Eurus hadn't reacted in any way. She had just stared at them, not saying a word. Sometimes she hadn't even turned around, instead facing the back of her cell, playing her violin or not doing anything at all. Mycroft had shown him the footage a few days ago. Sherlock was hardly able to look at her anymore…

“Your mother still wants to see her. But… it makes no sense. And after what she did to you two… And God, these people she killed…”

“So you do understand now why Mycroft deceived you.” The cigarette was finished and Sherlock ground the butt under his heel.

“Oh, Sherlock… I did apologise to him. So did your mother…”

Sherlock nodded. “It hurt him, you know?” What a hypocrite he was… How often had _he_ hurt Mycroft?

“Yes,” Father whispered.

“Don't worry. He never blamed you. He just blames himself. Even for this attack…”

“And you wonder why your mother is more overbearing than ever? She just wants to make it better. She was terrified about his injury. So was I, of course.”

Sherlock looked at his father, looked at him for real for the first time since… He didn’t know since when. He had become an old man. Tall like his sons but stooping. A defeated man full of regrets and fears about his family finally breaking apart. Each and every one of his years showing in his face. He had always been a warm-hearted, caring man, always ready to tell a bad joke and make people laugh, a humorous twinkle almost constantly in his blue eyes. And Sherlock felt his heart ache at his sight now.

Without thinking he reached for his father's hand, large like his and Mycroft's, and pressed it firmly. “It will be fine, Father,” he softly said. “We're a family.” As sentimental as it was true.

The older man had tears in his eyes when he turned to face him. “My clever boy.”

And then Sherlock found himself in a tight embrace, and he didn’t mind at all.

## ***

 _'Thanks, Mr Boomer.'_ The blonde woman in the short, tight, skirt and the full lips inhaled and then blew out the smoke.

 _'And now tell me all you know, Miss Palmer,'_ said the sleazy, greasy man with the black, back-combed hair, putting the lighter away.

 _'Who says I know anything?'_ rasped the beautiful woman, batting her eyelids.

_'You can fool the police, Ma'am, but not me.'_

Sherlock sighed above him and Mycroft grinned, looking up to him. “Enjoying the movie, little brother?”

“Tremendously… I can't believe you like watching this… heterosexual detective nonsense. Black and white above all! In more than one way…”

“Actually what our clever Mr Boomer just said sounded like something _you_ would say.”

Sherlock grinned but then glowered at him. “I don't talk in clichés, brother!”

“And you look a lot better, especially your hair. And no heterosexual detectives in here, thank God.”

“So?” Sherlock pinched his nose and Mycroft chuckled.

“I don't know why I like these old films. They have something… touchingly innocent about them. Some sort of escapism, if you want. I do admit they are far from being very realistic. And of course they're straight – at this time there weren't any gay films made so it's all about the mysterious woman.”

“Then watch contemporary gay movies if you must at all!”

“Wow, it really seems to offend you.” Mycroft paused the movie with the remote and reached up to touch Sherlock's cheek. He was lying spread out on the couch, his head in Sherlock's pillow-cushioned lap once more.

“No, it doesn’t, it's just… Sorry, brother dear. You really deserve a silly movie after enduring Mummy for hours.”

“It wasn't that bad, Sherlock. And you and Father had a nice talk when you left me behind, yes?”

“Yeah, sorry for escaping for ten minutes…” Sherlock played with Mycroft's ear. “It was nice, yes. But also sad. They do suffer a lot because of Eurus.”

“That's all she's about. Making others suffer, intentionally or not…” Mycroft didn’t like his own bitter tone, but it was true, wasn't it? And with her behaviour towards their parents, one could hardly say she hadn't intended to hurt them.

“Will you let them go back to her when you are at work again? Father doesn’t even want to but Mummy…”

Mycroft sighed. “I hope they'll give it up. But I won't forbid it. They should decide that for themselves. You know she never tried to reach out to them. It's as if they don't count for her at all.”

“I wonder if we're so much different than her in that regard…” Sherlock sounded very pensive.

“It's the usual process, Sherlock. Leaving home, cutting these parental bonds. Getting annoyed by being treated as if we still were children…” Even though of course Mummy's concern about his wellbeing had not only been annoying. It was sweet, actually, especially after being yelled at after the Sherrinford disaster.

“We could visit them more often.”

“And that from _you_?” Mycroft was stunned. “But I agree. We could go for Mummy's birthday.” It would be nice to be out there for a change. Fresh air. No hectic. Lots of excellent food. Being pampered. Even more than by Sherlock, that is.

“Yes. But not on Christmas.”

“No? You have other plans then?” Christmas was still months ahead.

“Yep. Sex. Three days, nonstop.”

Mycroft laughed. His brother seemed to be a lot more at ease with these strange new feelings and desires now even though hardly anything had happened between them. Obviously Sherlock was convinced they would have become very acquainted to their shared sexuality until then. “That sounds like a very tempting plan indeed!”

He would be totally fine until then. He was feeling better every day. Four days ago, the stitches had been removed. They had made a try at the same evening but Mycroft had had to realise that the twitch inside was still too painful so they had taken to just being tender with each other again and he had watched Sherlock getting off with his hand, forcing his own arousal down, and they had done it again the day before in the same way. But now…

He turned the television off completely. “What do you think – shall we go to bed?” Sherlock had long ceased to sleep in the guestroom.

“For cuddling?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Lots of cuddling. And perhaps… a bit more.” Mycroft got up, carefully as usual.

“Oh! But Mycroft – tell me at once if you can't go on!” Sherlock was on his feet in an instant.

“I will. But something tells me I'm ready for some slow, careful action.”

“And you waste our time with watching stupid telly?!”

“That was the punishment for the smoking and escaping Mummy…”

“Oh. Okay. Nasty man.”

“The nastiest,” Mycroft agreed. He reached out with his hand. “Take me to bed, brother mine.”

Sherlock's warm hand slipped into his. “I love this sentence.”

Mycroft heartily agreed.

## ***

“No… Don't… That feels too good!” Sherlock protested, making Mycroft chuckle around his dick before the older man continued to suck him, almost painfully slowly and horribly arousing.

Mycroft had placed himself in the middle of his generous bed and had asked Sherlock to kneel over him so he could dip his cock into Mycroft's mouth. He had suggested this before but Sherlock had refused to get such a treatment if Mycroft couldn’t risk coming himself. He was still not convinced his brother was able to really participate but Mycroft had been insistent and now Sherlock was in heaven.

Nothing could feel better than this… A hot tongue whirling around his engorged knob, a firm but careful suction, his pearls of arousal being lapped up as soon as they emerged from him.

“God… And you want to tell me you've never done that before?!”

Of course Mycroft couldn’t tell him anything right now but he winked at Sherlock and managed a brief nod.

“Fuck, I'm… Oh…” Sherlock tried to pull away but Mycroft's hands were holding his waist in an iron grip all at once, and he cried out when he felt an almost painful twitch in his groin when all his muscles contracted, and then he helplessly spurted into his brother's mouth, making him gag just a bit, but Mycroft wouldn’t have been Mycroft if he had ended a job before it was finished. So he sucked and swallowed until Sherlock was not shuddering anymore, and Sherlock pulled himself together enough to carefully move away from his brother to lie next to him instead of collapsing all over his head.

He was still panting and his brain was doing the funniest things when Mycroft pulled him in, his long cock nudging Sherlock's thigh.

“Was that to your liking, little brother?”

“Oh… That was a goldfish question.”

Mycroft grinned. “So it was. Well, reading is education.”

“You watched porn.”

“No, I didn’t. I never do!”

“Then you _read_ porn.”

“I admit that. Albeit very tasteful one.”

“Speaking of tasteful…”

“Oh, Sherlock. Yes, you are very tasteful…”

Sherlock reached down and gently wrapped his long fingers around his brother's erect appendage. “May I return the favour?”

“You are sure you want to?”

“Yes!” And he was. It did still scare him a bit but the tension that had built up since they had started living together had made his curiosity and desire get on top of his feelings. And now that Mycroft had made him such a gift… There was no question that he had to and wanted to return it.

“Well then. But don't think you have to do it. You can as well just touch me. Or watch me touch myself.”

“No way. But Mycroft!”

“I know, I know. I promise I'll tell you to stop if it hurts too much.”

“It shouldn’t hurt at all!”

“It will for a while longer. But coming won't destroy anything inside me. I asked the doctor when you were waiting outside…”

“Oh. Fine. Wait… You're not talking about John, right?”

Mycroft laughed. “No, dear. That would have been a tad too obvious, even for him…”

“You could have asked Ingrid though.”

“I could. I bet she wouldn’t even have gotten red.”

“No, certainly not. She just blushes from wrath…”

“Why are we talking about Ingrid now? Do you want my cock to go down?”

“Oh, sorry. Certainly not. But it will go down my throat.”

Mycroft chuckled and let him go to lie flat on his back. “It's all yours. But if you don't like it…”

Sherlock straightened to stuff a pillow under Mycroft's head as his position didn’t look very comfortable. “I won't shy away like a damn virgin, Mycroft!”

“Even though technically we both are.”

“Yes. But not for very much longer.” Sherlock knew they would take the final step very soon. Cross the last line…

“No. Next week, hm? And now… Suck me before my manhood shrivels like a stabbed balloon.”

“Not a good metaphor, Mycroft.” A little too close to home, the stabbing part…

“No, probably not. But you get the picture.”

“I do. And I see it didn’t get any softer in the past minutes.”

“I told you my equipment would be…”

“…fully functioning, yes.” And finally Sherlock repositioned himself to make his brother happy.

## ***

The moment Sherlock lapped probingly at the dark-red head of his dick Mycroft started feeling as if his groin was lifting from the bed. The view was incredible enough – Sherlock's reddened cheeks, stressing his extraordinary cheekbones even more, the hunger in his eyes, only disturbed by a bit of uncertainty, and his long, pink tongue darting out to taste him. The feeling did things to Mycroft he would have failed describing properly if he had tried for eternity. His entire body tensed at the unknown feeling and he felt the expected pulling in his stomach. But he could feel it wasn’t doing any harm. He tried to relax as much as possible. The taste of his brother's sperm still in his mouth, he couldn’t wait for being devoured himself.

Sherlock firmly wrapped his long fingers around his member and licked at it again. “Salty,” he mumbled. “A tiny bit bitter but surprisingly pleasant. A little…”

“Sherlock… Can you please send the scientist into the corner and lick some more?”

The younger man grinned from ear to ear. “Impolite! But if you insist…”

And then the wide head of his cock was enveloped by warm wetness and Mycroft moaned at the fantastic feeling which only increased when Sherlock carefully and slowly started to suckle at it.

Shouldn’t it make him feel guilty? Bad? Depraved?

Without his letter, Sherlock would have never considered this. He did want it, so much was clear, but it was Mycroft's responsibility. Was he misguiding his little brother, robbing him of the chance to be happy with a more appropriate man? No matter how many arguments he could find for them being meant for each other in their mutual strangeness and cleverness – the fact was that _every_ other man would have been more appropriate than him… Brothers should not do that with each other. But then – sucking Sherlock had not felt wrong at all. So why should it be different the other way around?

Sherlock let him drop out of his mouth. “Don't think, Mycroft. We are both in this. Both from our free will. Have you ever made me do anything I didn’t want?”

“I did try…” Mycroft said drily. “Behave, serve the country, don't betray the Queen - that sort of thing.”

Sherlock grinned. “And did I do what you wanted?”

“Not once.”

“See. You can't seriously doubt I want this…” He lapped over Mycroft's hard cock once more, rolling his eyes in pleasure.

Mycroft opened his mouth and was shut up with a large hand on his lips.

“And don't tell me now that the fact we want it doesn't make it right. I don't give a bloody fuck if anyone thinks it's right. Hell, even Mrs Hudson does think it is!”

“Oh, please. Ingrid, Mrs Hudson?! What's next?”

“I bet _Mummy_ would think it's fine!” Sherlock's eyes were sparkling.

“Oh! Don't say such things!”

“Then don't spoil it with your second thoughts…”

“I don't really have them,” Mycroft confessed. “I just thought I _should_ have them…”

Sherlock smiled. “Yeah. It's hard to be a miscreant like me all at once, right? A lawbreaker, a criminal! Incest! Isn't it the worst thing!”

“It doesn't bother you at all, right?” Mycroft knew it was a rhetorical question.

“Nope. In fact it turns me on even more. And now let me do my job! That is – if you can take it physically!” Sherlock looked at him with an expression of concern.

“Oh yes. It feels great. And it won't do me any harm.”

“Well, then I shall indulge you with the best first blowjob that has ever been performed, except for yours of course.”

“Right so. And sorry for…”

“Oh, Mycroft. I wouldn’t have recognised you anymore if you hadn't fretted your handsome head about it… But now – attention please. There comes the virgin suckmaster.”

Mycroft laughed. “Oh God… But yes, oh mighty suckmaster. Make me feel good.”

“With my lips, I'm a born cocksucker.”

“I couldn’t have said it any better.”

Sherlock grinned smugly and then he finally went to work.

## ***

He couldn’t help it – he was storing all the attacks at his taste buds in his mind palace. He had never tasted anything like it and he briefly wondered why he had never been curious – or perhaps crazy – enough to taste his own pre-come and sperm and catalogue it.

But now he did it with his brother's musky taste while he was whirling his tongue around the mushroom head as he had seen it in the porn videos, while he was licking up and down on the long, silky shaft, while he was letting his tongue dart out to tickle the blood-filled, hairy balls. And he wasn't only storing the taste that was rich and heavy and exciting but also his brother's reactions.

He was not exactly loud, his brother. Except for the initial moment when he had started sucking him, he'd been rather quiet so far, his groans and moans soft and controlled as it was to be expected from him. But there was no question that he was enjoying Sherlock's efforts, and Sherlock saved every tiny reaction for later use and for instant repeat of the action that had elicited the low sigh or the slight wiggling. The most rewarding reaction was the appearance of small amounts of fluid that wasn't salty or bitter or sweet but all of it together and more he couldn’t even name.

It was amazing to Sherlock how Mycroft had suppressed his needs for such a long time and was now expressing his arousal so openly albeit discreetly. His hand was working in Sherlock's curls though, sometimes even pulling but it stayed on the good side of pain. His breath was fast. His eyes were rolling in pleasure, his eyelids twitching in astonishment.

When Sherlock was sure he had catalogued all nuances of taste and reactions, he started sucking Mycroft in earnest. He watched his teeth well but sometimes he couldn’t avoid slightly scratching his brother's sensitive flesh with them. But Mycroft didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact he moans got even guttural and his heart rate increased even more – as Sherlock's one hand was wrapped around his brother's wrist, taking his pulse. He was gladdest for the obvious absence of pain in the injured part of Mycroft's body.

“God, yes, you're doing it so well,” Mycroft mumbled, his eyelids fluttering hectically.

Sherlock was very glad to hear it even though it was redundant of course – he knew he was doing a very good (blow)job. He took his brother deeper with every time the large cock slid into his mouth, trying to overcome his gag reflex which was a lot harder than it had looked on video…

And then finally Mycroft's moans got louder, the movements of his hips more urgent and Sherlock knew he was close.

“I'm… Oh, Sherlock!” His one hand cramped into Sherlock's hair, the other spasmodically fisted the blanket.

Sherlock wasn't prepared for having his mouth completely and utterly flooded. It shouldn’t have been that surprising though – Sherlock had already come heavily and he'd climaxed a few times in the days before. But Mycroft had saved it all up…

It took him a herculean effort to swallow down the masses of sticky sperm but he managed to relax his throat and let it flow down after hitting his palate. Sherlock Holmes didn’t splutter and spit, let alone toss cookies.

Sherlock Holmes licked his lips when the assault was over and lay down next to his brother, who was looking as if he'd been run over by a few bin lorries.

“God, sorry, Sherlock…”

Sherlock grinned and let his hand slide over his brother's sweat covered chest, feeling the soft, damp hair under his fingers. “ _I'm_ not. Say it.”

Mycroft smiled weakly, looking completely deranged. “You are officially the best virgin cocksuckmaster that has ever lived.”

“Yep. I shall add this to my card.”

“That was… a lot.”

Sherlock chuckled. “If I had known that, I'd have skipped dinner.”

“Wow.”

“Wow indeed. How are you feeling?”

Mycroft turned to face him. “Seriously?”

“You know what I mean! Invalid that you are!”

“I'm fine, little brother. Better than ever, I'd say.”

“Great.”

“But I can't get up anymore now. You finished me completely.”

“My pleasure. Let's just sleep.” It was just after nine o'clock but he didn’t mind. He pulled Mycroft closer. “Thank you, brother dear. That was an awesome experience.”

“I'm glad. And yes, it was. No way back now.”

“This was never an option.”

“'s still so hard to believe.” Mycroft sounded very sleepy now.

“Believe it, big brother. You won't get rid of me again.”

“Love you, Sherlock.” And with this the older man fell asleep.

Sherlock watched him with a smile. “Love you, brother mine.” And then he switched off the light and snuggled against Mycroft's shoulder.


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More talking and smut, basically :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt apology to Greg. For reasons :)

“You're sure it's okay?” Anthea looked a bit concerned.

Sherlock smiled wryly and took her coat. “We both know he shouldn’t be bothered with any work matters until he returns to the office but he's getting bored when I'm… He has to use his brain again and he thinks he's missing something.”

It would still be a week until Mycroft would probably feel well enough to go to work again. Probably he wouldn’t go fulltime at the beginning as sitting all day would make him feel uncomfortable. He was still not a hundred percent healthy after all and Sherlock doubted he would be in seven days. But no matter how much they talked and snogged and had sex – Mycroft needed another kind of stimulation, plus it worried him to be absent from work for so long. He had glanced over the most important reports the past days already but now he wanted to go through some contracts with Anthea. Sherlock had to solve cases as well after all and he could imagine his brother feeling very fidgety and bored when he was gone.

“Just go through. He is in the last room on this floor. His home office…”

“I was there before,” Anthea said with a smile.

“You were?” Sherlock couldn’t help but feeling a sting. He wasn't jealous of her, was he? He didn’t really think his brother could be interested in her, not after all they had done the past days. And he wasn’t. But she had already known him well when he had been more or less a stranger to Sherlock – which was entirely Sherlock's fault as he knew very well.

Still he didn’t like it – Mycroft confining in someone else, trusting someone else. It was stupid and it wasn’t fair at all. Sherlock had his friends he trusted, not quite unconditionally but he did know they would do a lot for him. Once he'd have said he had unconditional faith in John but… things had changed. They were good again but neither of them would forget what had gone wrong between them. Anyway. Anthea was the closest to a friend Mycroft had and Sherlock should be happy about it. He knew Anthea could be trusted. But obviously jealousy ran in the family…

She was eying him closely. “Yes. Sometimes in matters of urgency, I had to bother him at home. And I accompanied him to a few official events and came here to pick him up with my car…”

“You what? As his _date_ , you mean?”

Damn… This tone had not been good at all… What exactly was he doing here? But still – Anthea as Mycroft's fucking date? Dancing and chatting and smiling… The image let dark clouds appear in his face and he couldn’t help it.

Anthea took a small step back. “Not quite. We didn’t… dance or anything. It was just the image of company. And the catering was good.”

This broke the tension. Sherlock smiled. He still didn’t like it but… better her, who was obviously not sexually interested in Mycroft, than the good old Lady Smallwood who leered after him. Even though he wasn't jealous of her! It was disconcerting. Made him feel uncomfortable… He didn’t like it but he had to pull himself together to not raise any more suspicion than he already had. “I can imagine… Well then. You know where to find him.”

She nodded. “I won't stay for long. Half an hour at the utmost.”

“Well, we'll see how fast he lets you go. His work addiction is slowly coming back.” He wished it hadn't. He wished Mycroft would have agreed on… working only part time forever. Perhaps not at all… He was a rich man. He wouldn’t have to work for another day in his life. But of course of all people Sherlock understood best that this wasn't an option… The Holmes brain needed fuel. Both of them needed to be challenged. They couldn't just have sex all the time, as tempting as it would be. He just hoped Mycroft would draw the line if they demanded too much from him again. But at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Sherlock being alone with Eurus anymore…

“I will try to stop him if he starts working himself into the ground again,” Anthea, who had still not left him, said.

Had she read his thoughts? But why not – if she knew Mycroft so well, she would know _him_ too. They were so alike in so many ways, the Holmes boys.

“Well, good luck with that. I'll try too but…”

“That's good. It's exactly what he needs. You looking after him.” And with this she walked off, her heels clacking on the ground.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Yes. She knew them _very_ well… Of course she could have meant in a brotherly way. But what if not? He couldn’t deduce it. And then he thought of Mrs Hudson. Anthea was like her, albeit a tad younger and prettier. But she was also as loyal as they got. They were very lucky…

## *****

“What do you think, Sherlock?”

The detective scrutinized the corpse. “Hm. Heart attack, the autopsy says?” he turned to Molly Hooper. She had done something with her hair. Cut it, bleached it. Looked weird but then, what did _he_ know about this stuff?

The pathologist nodded. “Yes. Looks like it. No other injuries except for these… welts. There're some sure indications for an untreated coronary heart disease.”

“So why am I here?” Sherlock asked Lestrade. He had just heard that the middle-aged man had been found in a hotel bed like this – naked, dead and alone.

As John had an appointment, Sherlock had come to St. Bart's on his own so the doctor couldn’t have a look at the body.

The DI shrugged. “These… welts!”

“Oh please. He liked to get whipped. See the small ones just above his little dick? He got off on it until his heart gave out on it.”

Greg cleared his throat and smiled wryly. “ _'Little dick'_ … That does sound rather strange, coming from you, you know, the sophisticated Holmes man.”

Sherlock tried not to blush by concentrating on the coldness in the autopsy room. He completely ignored Greg's remark. “And here… He liked his… chest to be thrashed as well.” He had almost said 'nipples'. Not good. Would have probably been too obvious as well. “But then… Was he married?”

“He was gay, in fact.”

Sherlock waved this away. “He could still have been married, couldn’t he? Or civilly partnered, if you like that better.”

“Hey, hey. What are you implying here? That I'm a homophobe?” Greg sounded seriously upset.

“No! I just… What I meant is – obviously he didn’t whip himself, did he? So was there someone he shared his bed with who could have profited from his death? Financially? Not just a lover - a spouse or whatever you want to call it.” But then he shook his head. “If _he_ didn’t know about this coronary heart disease, how should anyone else have known about it? Nobody just dies because he gets whipped and probably comes hard at it.”

He caught Molly's look. She looked as if she'd been slapped. He sighed internally and turned to the policeman again. “I don't think we've got a case here, Greg, but if I were you I'd check if he had hidden riches or a life assurance and someone important enough to him to get it after his death.” Suddenly he shuddered. _A little too close to home…_ He shook it off. “And if this person knew about these heart problems. But even if you find them – it will be very hard to prove. That's actually a perfect crime.”

“And how do we still get them?” Greg was fumbling with his phone.

“Confrontation,” Sherlock said. “Tell them you know everything. Be stern. Threatening, but subtle.”

“Wow… Thank you, Sherlock. But…”

“Hm?”

“Little dick!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What about it?”

“It's not that little! And remember he's dead. He's not exactly erect.”

Compared to Mycroft and to Sherlock himself, he was tiny… But Sherlock had just said this without thinking. “Why are we discussing his dick?! I think it's a shrivelled little…”

“Stop it! Don't say that all the time!” Molly suddenly screamed.

Both men turned to her in confusion.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Greg opened his mouth but then his phone rang. “Oh, the Super Intendant. Excuse me…” With this he left the morgue, and Sherlock gathered the bag with the toy he had bought for Rosie. Perhaps he should better not tell John he had brought it into an autopsy room…

“You're gay…” Molly said behind him, and he tried not to roll his eyes.

They were good, he had thought. They had sorted it all out, he had thought. He had been wrong.

He slowly turned around. “Yes. Well, yes.”

She shook her head with a wry smile. “You could have told me. Would have made things so much easier.”

Yes, indeed. But Sherlock had never wasted a thought on it because it had never been important. He had not fancied any man. At least not consciously… But would it have really cured her from her obsession with him?

“Would it?” he asked her, smiling wryly.

“Well…” She looked down on her shoes. “Probably not. I'd still have…You know… But I'd have known it would never happen.”

Sherlock didn’t say what he was thinking – that she could have figured this out long ago anyway. “You know I did mean it, in a way. What I told you. You're more of a sister to me than Eurus could have ever been.”

She bit her lip. “That's a very strange compliment…”

Hard to argue against that, but that was exactly how he felt. “It's all I can offer you.”

She nodded. “But you did find someone.”

“What?”

Molly smiled sadly. “I know you. I can see you've changed. You'd have never even registered his…”

“…little dick,” Sherlock added helpfully.

Her lips twitched. “Yes. That. You'd never seen, let alone mentioned it if… sex was still foreign to you.”

She was smart… And Sherlock could of course not say she was right. She might ask John if he knew whom Sherlock had met. Not a good idea… “No. I'm still single. But I started, you know, watch porn.”

“What?!”

“Gay porn, to be precise. And he _is_ little. Hm… Wonder what this _little_ discussion earlier says about Greg…”

Molly stared at him with huge eyes and then she started to giggle with flushed cheeks, her hand covering her mouth, and Sherlock fell in, and their laughter echoed from the room's low walls.

And maybe now they _were_ good.

## *****

Mycroft closed the file. The last of eight reports he had read this afternoon. At least six too much, Sherlock would say. But Sherlock wasn’t at home yet.

At home.

It was how they both felt about it but in fact, it couldn’t be Sherlock's home. At least not as long as Mycroft was alive… He grimaced at this thought.

They would have to steal time together as soon as Mycroft was back at work and Sherlock would have to move back into 221b.

God, he would miss him so much…

With a sigh he was about to shut down his computer, but then he decided to check something. Once more…

A few seconds later the video feed from Sherrinford appeared on his PC.

There wasn't much to see, just like all the other times he had looked at it the past days. Eurus was sitting in her cell. Motionless. Staring into nothingness.

She wasn't helping the country anymore. She wasn’t doing anything but playing her violin. And whenever Mycroft had watched her lately, she hadn't even done that.

She had lost weight. Often she refused to eat at all. They could have forced her but Mycroft had given order to not do it. It was her choice. She would never get out of prison. She would never get another chance to play her deadly games. It was her to decide if she still wanted to live or not. If anyone could call it a life…

He wondered if they had messed it up. Uncle Rudy and him. Could she have been saved when she had been a child? Therapy? They had tried in the beginning, of course they had. She had not responded at all. Should they have tried harder?

Mycroft did know these thoughts were completely pointless. Even if it had not been much too late for them now, he was convinced that nothing they could have done would have changed anything about his sister. She was, plainly and brutally spoken, a monster. She had always been. She couldn’t have been saved.

He was about to close the program and finally get away from his computer as he knew he'd been sitting for too long and was feeling achy and exhausted when all at once Eurus stood up and stalked towards the camera, staring at it with her dead blue eyes. She came closer and closer and then she smiled maliciously and Mycroft pulled back as if he his eyes had been burnt. His heart was racing, cold sweat covering his forehead and his back. And then her smile turned into a grimace of condescension and she turned away again, returning to her chair.

With shivering fingers he shut down the PC and got up to refresh himself. But before he could reach the bathroom, the door was unlocked and then Sherlock stepped into the house.

“Oh, hello. Damn, what's wrong?! Why are you so pale?” He closed the distance with long steps and grabbed Mycroft gently by the shoulders.

He wouldn’t tell him. There was nothing to tell. She couldn’t have sensed he was watching her. That was impossible.

“I'm okay. Just worked too much…” Which was not a lie.

“Damn, Mycroft!”

“Yes, I know. Can't leave me alone and so on…”

“You go there,” Sherlock gestured at the bathroom, “and then you'll lie down with me. Have you eaten anything?”

“No. A sandwich would be nice.”

“I'll make some.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It's hard for you, I know that. But you need to take care of yourself.”

“Yes. What about you? Any interesting cases?”

Sherlock shrugged and smiled a bit. “Just a man with a little dick.”

“What?!”

Sherlock chuckled. “I'll tell you later.” And then he finally kissed Mycroft on the lips, and Mycroft clung to him.

And he felt something cold at his spine. A strange, nasty feeling. He shook it off. He would not start seeing ghosts now and Sherlock might believe in premonitions, but _he_ didn’t.

## *****

“It's okay, Sherlock, go on.”

“I don't want to hurt you! In two ways!”

“It's fine, I'm telling you. We've waited long enough.”

“Perhaps the other way around…”

“No. This way, please.”

“You don't have to beg me to fuck you, Mycroft! I want to! But…”

He stopped when Mycroft turned his head to shut him up with a kiss, half missing his lips and pecking the corner of his mouth instead. He bent forward to kiss his big brother properly while his throbbing, slippery erection was pressing between the other man's equally damp arse cheeks, covered with lube and saliva after Sherlock had prepared him thoroughly even though a little clumsily. He had not planned to make him all sticky.

This would be their first time. The first real sex. With Sherlock on top, above all. Not literally – they had agreed the best position right now would be from behind.

Sherlock had made use of his brother's pert bottom before already – rubbing his engorged prick between them. It had felt heavenly, albeit not for very long. He had showered the small of Mycroft's back with his release way too quickly, collapsing against the full length of his back. And then he had masturbated his amused and aroused brother to completion while still shivering through the aftermaths of his climax.

“You're really ready?” Sherlock whispered, his hand stroking over Mycroft's hairy, hot front. The scar was still clearly visible but the hair was already starting to claim its former terrain back and would cover it soon enough. Sherlock didn’t mind the red line at all but he did wish he had some body hair of himself to hide the bullet wound. He knew Mycroft wasn't bothered as little by its aesthetics as Sherlock was by his operation scar but he had to inevitably think of who had inflicted it on him every time he saw it. Things were a lot better between Mycroft and John now. But he would never forget it and, Sherlock feared, forgive John for his reaction to it.

“Yes,” Mycroft said in the same tone. “I want to feel you in me, Sherlock.”

“Oh, Mycroft!”

“What?” Mycroft looked genuinely confused.

“Don't say such things! Or do you _want_ me to shoot all over your wrinkled little hole before I even get the chance to put it in?!”

Mycroft giggled. “You are rubbing yourself on me, aren't you! You _can_ control it then.”

“The things your voice does to me are even worse than feeling you,” Sherlock admitted and moved just a bit to prove his point, feeling his flexible knob sliding over the puckered skin of his brother's luring entrance.

“Oh, are they?”

“Mm-mm!”

“So if I say something like, 'oh, little brother, please push your big, hot dick into me and'… oh, Sherlock!”

It was as if the already leaking head of his dick had a head of his own. It had just slipped into Mycroft's loosened entrance and was immediately sucked in and held in place.

Sherlock's heart almost stopped at this feeling – his most sensitive part being stuck in-between this indescribably hot, tight muscle, dripping from lube. But it wasn't just the overwhelming sensation but the knowledge that they were connected now in the most scandalously intimate and taboo way possible. It was as if every cliché about sex that Sherlock had despised for so long had become true. This was _becoming one_ , this was _merging_ , this was _claiming_ the man he loved more with every passing day.

“You okay?” he mumbled against Mycroft's ear, his right arm holding his brother around his shoulders.

“God, yes. Doesn't hurt, just… pressure…”

It seemed Mycroft had forgotten how to build a coherent sentence.

Sherlock didn’t move, giving his brother time to adjust to the intrusion of something bigger than Sherlock's fore- and middle finger combined.

“Now, brother. Take me.”

“Doesn't it hurt you inside? The front? Injured part?” Speaking of coherent sentences… But who could talk when all his blood had rushed southwards?

“I'm fine. Burns a bit.”

“Should I add more lube?”

“No. Just go slowly.”

And Sherlock did. Holding Mycroft in his arms, he carefully moved his hips, sliding in deeper in slow motion until he was buried in him almost completely. Mycroft had held his breath and now he exhaled and bottomed out against Sherlock in the go, making him sink just a tad deeper, and he hissed and buried his face in Mycroft's neck, breathing him in with closed eyes.

This was not what he had expected. This wasn't sex. It was… completion. Nothing should feel so good.

“How does it feel for you?” he mumbled.

“Full. Stretching. Invading. Terrifying. Tingling. Awesome.”

“Yes?” He had almost pulled out at 'terrifying' but now he allowed himself to relax again.

“Yes. It's very… strange and special.”

“Can't wait for changing places. But I love this. So deep in you.”

“I wish we didn’t have to be so careful. But you can move your hips just a bit now. I won't break.”

“Tell me at once if it gets too painful, no matter in which part of you!”

“Have you ever thought you were so caring, Sherlock?” Mycroft's voice was pure silk and adoration.

“No. I never thought I had that in me.”

“Well, actually…”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, you have something in you now. Okay… Just a bit…” And he started moving back and forth, in a pace so slow it didn’t overstimulate him. He never slid out completely but stayed in his brother, and soon he had found a steady rhythm.

They hadn't put on any music so the only noises were the very quiet creaking of Mycroft's excellent mattress, the squishy noises of their coupling and their low panting.

Sherlock was only moving his hips, his arms were still wrapped around his brother so he was stabilizing them both. But it was difficult to not shuffle on the bed.

“Will it be okay if I put my leg in front of you?” he asked and kissed Mycroft's ear.

“Sure. Oh… Oh!”

The angle of penetration had changed the moment Sherlock set his foot onto the bed in front of his lover, and obviously it had a strong impact. Not for a moment he thought Mycroft's moans meant pain. There were clearly coming from a place of pleasure and he gladly continued to push into him, still very slowly but deeply and deliberately.

“God, this feels…”

“Yeah? Good?”

“Yes…”

Sherlock felt that it would be over soon now. But he didn’t want to come before his brother. His hand found the other man's warm, hard dick and started stroking it in the rhythm of his thrusts.

Mycroft turned his head and moaned against his mouth and that was too much. Sherlock growled deep in his throat and emptied himself into his brother's canal, and a moment later, his hand was flooded by hot wetness, accompanied by Mycroft's guttural moaning.

Sherlock pulled out as soon as his orgasm had been ridden out, surprised by the flood that followed his drawing back.

“Fuck… Your sheets…”

Mycroft smiled. “My houseboy will change them.”

“Yeah? Is he good?”

“Very good. He sees to my every need.”

“He loves you very much.”

“And I love him. Every day a little more.”

“Just a little?” Sherlock playfully bit his brother's ear.

“A tiny little bit.” He turned and kissed Sherlock's mouth. “And I'm surprised I can even love him more because I was completely obsessed with him right from the start.”

Sherlock smiled. “He's the luckiest man in the world.”

Mycroft's smile was so full of love that Sherlock shuddered. “No, little brother. _I_ am.”

## *****

“Fucking can't believe it…”

Sherlock put his coat onto the couch. “What's wrong, John?”

His flatmate sat in his armchair, his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. “I thought we were through with this but here they go!”

“Stop talking in riddles, John. Hello, Rosie-Girl.” He sat down, tousling the fine blonde hair of the child. She was sitting next to the sofa, smelling freshly bathed and lovely.

“You recall when we went with her to the playground yesterday?”

“Yes, of course. As it was _yesterday_. And?”

“Someone took a picture of us…”

“Oh. Oh…” He could imagine it. Very well. He, John and the little girl. Looking like your typical happy two-dads-one-child-family. And he could imagine the captions, the hints, the questions… And he could imagine Mycroft's reaction.

“'The Captain and the Consulting Detective and their little girl',” John spat out. “Totally not suggestive.”

He stood up and showed Sherlock the display. Yes, it looked exactly as Sherlock had pictured it… Two laughing men and a little girl that looked very happy, too.

Sherlock sighed. “You know how the tabloid press is. When they have nothing interesting to write about, like Hollywood wannabee A divorces from popstar wannabee B, they make something up.” They hadn't done it for a long while though… And they had never published a picture with them and Rosie.

“Yeah but… I'm so through with that 'confirmed bachelor' crap…”

Which would now be 'confirmed widower'?

“Um, I need to go back to Mycroft,” Sherlock said, getting up.

“What? But you just came from him?”

“I forgot something. My… phone.”

“Oh, right. But the first client will show up in five minutes. Go there after it, right?”

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. “Okay.” Perhaps Mycroft wouldn’t have seen the picture. They'd had a nice lie-in this morning and Mycroft had wanted to go through a few reports while Sherlock was occupied in Baker Street. He discreetly switched off the phone he had told John was lying in Mycroft's house and hoped his brother wouldn’t try to reach him.

Perhaps it was stupid. Perhaps Mycroft would just laugh about this nonsense.

Sherlock hoped he would…

## ***

“Hello. You're back early.” Mycroft's voice was calm and friendly but there was a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

He had seen it…

Sherlock walked through the living room. Mycroft was sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in front of him on the table.

“Care for some tea? There's hot water left.”

Sherlock sat down and grabbed for his hand. “You know it's bullshit, right? They had no other 'important' things to write so they made this up. For the three-hundred-and-eight's time.”

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded, returning the pressure of Sherlock's fingers. “I should be used to that by now… It always killed me, you know. When he showed up in your life I feared… You know what.”

“It was always unjustified. We're friends, that's all.”

“Look good together though, the three of you. Happy.”

Sherlock wouldn’t have that. They had come such a long way since Mycroft had come home from hospital. This silly picture wouldn’t destroy all this progress. Not on his watch. “I do not give a fuck about how we look. John is my friend and Rosie is my goddaughter. John had made a rather nasty joke so we laughed and that's the moment they captured. I do care for them. A lot. But I care even more about you. I wish we could go out there, hand in hand, for everybody to see.” He could imagine _these_ headlines very well.

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “That would be a whole lot of scandal for a few moments of satisfaction I'm afraid.” He laid his other arm around Sherlock's shoulder. “It was sweet of you to come back because of this but it's just a foretaste of the reality that is looming upon us. We'll just have to live with it I suppose.”

“But it isn't real. Having less time for each other, inventing all kinds of excuses to be able to meet up, deceiving almost everybody - that is real. But this… This is just laughable. They know themselves it's not true but they publish it nonetheless.” He kissed Mycroft on the cheek. “Don't let that wind you up.”

“I won't.”

“And don't doubt that this is going to work. No matter how much obstacles we have to deal with, we'll make it work.”

“You keep telling me this…”

They had indeed talked about it more than once the past couple of weeks. “And you still don't believe it?”

“I do, dear. Ah, I'm sorry. Sometimes the fear comes back. Losing you…”

“You can't always control these feelings, these fears. That's okay. But don't let them take over. Losing each other is not an option. Failure is not an option.”

His lips searched for Mycroft's and his brother granted him with a long, deep kiss. Sherlock's hand slid under Mycroft's shirt and the older man grinned against his lips.

“I suppose you'll have to go back very soon, little brother. Don't start something you can't finish.”

“Damn…” Sherlock knew he was right. “I'll make them hurry up and then I'll come back.” He reluctantly got up. “I know sex isn’t the answer to everything and it can't solve problems. But trust can.”

“I do trust you, Sherlock. It's just…”

“It's not nice to see me with someone else and everybody thinks he's my lover.”

“Yes. It totally pisses me off.”

“Mycroft! Language!”

They smiled at each other and Sherlock knew his brother would be okay. He would get on with the cases and be back as soon as possible, and then they would cuddle and fumble and do all the things Sherlock had never wanted to do with John.

## *****

“Good afternoon, Mrs Hudson. And happy birthday to you. You look lovely.”

“Oh, Mr Holmes! And look at them – beautiful! So many wonderful presents!” She admired the huge bouquet of flowers that Mycroft had just handed to her. Sherlock had given her a very heavy box of chocolates and a dusky pink silk scarf – Molly had helped him choosing it and the old lady had draped it around her neck at once, obviously genuinely liking it.

Mycroft exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock and they smiled a little about her enthusiasm.

And then Mycroft winced when he was pulled down a bit and kissed on the cheek. “Thank you, my dear. Come in, please!”

Mycroft and Sherlock entered the old lady's flat. Mycroft had never been here before. And he had not seen 221b since Eurus had blown it up. Later they would go upstairs so he could have a look.

“Where's John?”

“Oh, he had to buy some cake for me. But Rosie is there.”

Indeed the baby was sitting on a thick blanket on the living room floor, playing with the toy Sherlock had gotten her recently – a green plush dog with huge eyes.

“She loves it so much,” Mrs Hudson said with a proud smile. It was as if the little girl was her grandchild. And certainly she felt like this about her.

“Every child loves dogs,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft lifted his hand to stroke over his back.

Yes, Sherlock had loved his imaginary dog.

Sherlock turned and smiled at him, and there was no resentment whatsoever in his eyes.

“Oh, excuse me,” the old lady said when her landline rung in the corridor.

“We can be glad the bridge girls will only come for dinner,” Sherlock said. “You wouldn’t want to meet them.”

Mycroft shuddered. “I'm sure I wouldn’t.” And then he looked down when Rosie scrambled towards him, fumbled with his shoes and then reached out for him.

Sherlock chuckled. “She wants you to take her.”

“Um. No.”

Sherlock tutted and picked the baby up. She immediately patted his nose. “Not now, okay. Even though she weighs almost nothing. But as soon as you are perfectly fine…”

“I'd rather lift _you_ up,” Mycroft not so subtly changed the subject.

“Oh, do tell!” Sherlock's bright eyes were sparkling. “For doing what?”

“Can't say it…”

Sherlock laughed. “She doesn't understand us.”

“Who knows… We wouldn’t want it to be her first word…”

“What, fu-…”

“Sherlock!”

“Oh, you're too cute.”

“I'll show you _cute_ when we get home…”

Home. There it was again. In fact, Sherlock _was_ already at home…

Of course Sherlock sensed his change in mood and scrutinized him, deducing him correctly. “It will be fine, Mycroft,” he said in a low, serious voice. “You know it will. This won't stop when I have to move back here. It will _never_ stop.”

Mycroft couldn’t help it. He closed the distance and kissed Sherlock on the mouth, and chuckled into it when Rosie pulled his hair. Thank God she wasn't strong enough to rip it out. He had little enough left…

“Promise me?” he asked when he reluctantly broke the kiss, as if there were any doubts about Sherlock's sincerity.

“Promises don't mean anything,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “You can see it in my eyes. Living apart will su-…, be horrible, but we'll make time. This is just the beginning.”

“I want to have you tonight, Sherlock…”

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. “Have me as in…”

Mycroft got very close to him. “…as in fucking you, yes,” he whispered into his ear. In less than a week he would return to work. He had to be healthy enough to finally take this last step. He could not exactly lift Sherlock up now but he could do it in a safe way.

“You're sure?”

Mycroft leered at him. “Deduce me…”

Sherlock grinned from ear to ear and then Mycroft made a step back when they heard voices from the corridor. John and Mrs Hudson. Time to have tea and eat cake and be nice and decent.

He greeted John and a little later they were joined by Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade, and they sat down at Mrs Hudson's round living room table and had excellent cake and strong tea. He had to admit it wasn’t a chore to spend two hours like this. They were all good people. Well, most of the times, when it came to John Watson… And these stupid hints at Sherlock and John being together that had of course been all over the internet once more since this 'happy family'-picture had been published had not pleased him. But he was feeling lighter in their presence than he would have expected. The atmosphere was bright and funny, and he felt himself relax among Sherlock's friends, who all asked him how he was doing.

It was rather nice.

And later he would finally enter his beloved brother's beautiful bum.

## *****

“Ohh…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just like that…” Sherlock's eyes were dazed and his eyelids were fluttering when Mycroft ever so carefully slid into him.

He would remember this moment forever. The moment that he had craved for since the morning of this Christmas so long ago when he had left his childhood room after coming home late in the night. Home to his parents and his little brother, seventeen years old, coming out of the bathroom in his pyjama pants and nothing else, ruffling up his still damp curls, greeting him grumpily. Mycroft had no idea what he had answered. Sherlock's beauty had hit him like a hammer blow. His eyes so bright, his lips full and pink and luscious, a perfect young man who had no clue how goddamn tempting he was.

And since this moment, Mycroft had dreamt of doing this – sinking into his baby brother's tight heat, slick from lube.

They had debated about how to do it the safest way. Sherlock had suggested riding him but had immediately dismissed it – he could fall over and land on Mycroft's stomach. Mycroft was rather sure it wouldn’t damage him anymore as his wounds had healed just fine but none of them wanted to risk anything.

Missionary style was also not an option – Sherlock's cock would poke into his stomach, they had assumed.

They had agreed on stuffing Sherlock's arse with a big pillow so Mycroft could line up kneeling in front of him, Sherlock's long legs over his shoulders. A very convenient angle for penetration and no pressure on his lower abdomen. It was not the most intimate position but that would come at a later point. But of course it was more than 'getting it over with'. This was Mycroft's first time topping and Sherlock's first time being taken and none of them would ever forget it.

He had loosened up Sherlock thoroughly before of course. Slipping a finger into his brother's anus had already made his brain swirl and get dizzy. And now he slowly slid into him, and nothing could compare to it. He had loved feeling Sherlock inside him and they would definitely do more of that, but this was crossing another line. The older brother taking the younger. Dominating him, in a way.

Mycroft supposed it should feel wrong. He was an intruder, invading a place that wasn't his to invade in the eyes of law and society. It felt more taboo to him than bottoming for Sherlock had felt.

But he wasn’t just _fucking_ Sherlock. He was inserting more than his cock. He was inserting his love and his protection, sealing the connection that had built up over the past weeks. This was it - the final implementation of their unique bond.

This wasn’t wrong. It was making them complete.

All these thoughts rushed through his mind within seconds, a cacophony of epiphanies and conclusions, while he was pressing in further and further until his balls met the skin of Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock's eyes were wide open and their gazes bored into each other. There was no need to ask Sherlock if he was okay. In fact he looked stunned and overwhelmed and _happy_ … Not _'this is nice and enjoyable'_ -happy. It was more _'this is it and I love you and it will always be like this'_ -happy.

His hands holding Sherlock's thighs, he started moving. Back and forth. Almost _out_ and completely _in_ again. Both men panting, their eyes never leaving each other except for the odd closing when the sensations were overwhelming them. Sherlock was lightly stroking his dick, obviously not wanting it to be over so soon but needing to touch himself. He had become better at controlling himself so he didn’t shoot right away anymore though. They were learning – every time they had sex.

A burn was filling up his groin. Every muscle was tingling.

He fucked his brother in a steady rhythm as if he had done it a thousand times. Which he would. And then he leaned forward just a bit and Sherlock howled but it was obviously not out of pain.

“There! Fuck… Again!”

He felt no little pride to have found this spot inside him and kept the exact angle to brush over it again and again.

And then Sherlock cried out, his muscles contracted around Mycroft's dick, and white come splashed onto Sherlock's stomach. With one last deep stroke, Mycroft followed him, filling him up with his seed and his love and the promise to never let him go again.

He kissed Sherlock's calf and slowly retreated from him to lie down next to him, getting immediately pulled into a tight embrace.

Their lips found each other and the much needed kiss sealed their blessed coupling.

He felt no pulling in his spleen. He was okay. Ready to face the world again the next week. Which meant they would have to find a new balance for their blossoming relationship. It would be difficult and tough and they would curse never having enough time for each other. But it would be worth it all.


	6. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's end this, shall we? Thanks to everyone who gave kudos or/ and wrote lovely comments. It's great to see your work is being appreciated! Big kiss from Germany! xxx

 “Oh, hello…”

“Mycroft. Thought I'd check on you again.”

“Mycroft. I gave the boys a lift and thought I'd say 'hello'.”

“Mycroft.” Just that, just his name. Spoken in this irresistible, deep voice…

Mycroft smiled. “Come in, you all. The more the better.”

Which wasn't quite true of course. He was very content with Sherlock alone. But he knew what was expected from him. And Lestrade was openly smiling at him, and so was John.

Sherlock pressed his arse for a moment when nobody was looking and busy hanging up their coats.

Mycroft shot him a glare that couldn’t hide his amusement. Obviously Sherlock had had a pleasant morning. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were sparkling and he oozed the satisfaction of a man having done some hard, difficult work, and having it done very well.

“So the case is solved?” he asked rather unnecessarily.

“Yes, and Sherlock was brilliant,” Greg said. “Brilliant!”

Sherlock waved the praise away. “As if that was anything new,” he said modestly.

John and Lestrade giggled and Mycroft grinned. Yes, it was very nice. Seeing his brother so happy and so involved with his friends.

“Would anyone like tea?” he offered.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind a cuppa,” Lestrade said.

“Me neither. And you look good, Mycroft. Ready to face the world again?”

He saw a shadow ghosting over Sherlock's face. His brother was not that fine with having to move back to Baker Street either after all.

“I'll take care of the tea,” Sherlock said, disappearing into the direction of the kitchen, his enthusiasm vanished at the sudden confrontation with reality. Of course he had known it. And he had managed to always seem as if he was certain everything would work out.

It would, wouldn’t it?

“Yes,” he said, turning to John. “I had a meeting with Lady Smallwood today and in two days I'll be back in the office.” He started moving, leading the way to the living room.

“But don't do too much at once!” John said admonishingly.

Mycroft smiled. “I won't.”

“Will be hard, having to grapple with Sherlock's mess again,” John said only half-jokingly, scratching his head. “I was almost used to being alone with Rosie.”

“Well…” Mycroft's head was spinning. Could that work? Suggesting Sherlock stayed with him? Would only go to Baker Street for solving cases and then come back like he had done it over the past weeks?

“Tea will be ready in no time,” Sherlock said when he joined them in the living room a moment later. “Do sit down, Greg, John.” He looked at Mycroft as if to ask, _'where are your manners?'_ ”

“Perhaps…,” Mycroft started, but the ringing of John's phone interrupted him.

“Oh, sorry. That's Mrs Hudson. She went to the park with Rosie. Hello! Is my girl behaving?... Hello? …What?…Who…?” And with every word the doctor got paler, his eyes seemed to bulge out of his head, and he tumbled.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock and Greg asked simultaneously.

But John made a gesture, silencing them. Mycroft saw Lestrade taking out his own phone. He had drawn the same conclusion as Mycroft and certainly also Sherlock had. Someone had called him with Mrs Hudson's phone. And it was not her.

The three other men held their breath while John was listening, only making guttural noises from time to time. And then he let the hand with the phone drop down.

“What is going on?” Sherlock asked, his voice strident.

John opened his mouth and closed it again. He was under shock. The man nothing could shock anymore was speechless from shock.

“Someone has kidnapped them,” Mycroft said, stating the obvious to help him along.

“Yes,” the doctor finally rasped out. “My girl and Mrs Hudson. I've got an address.”

“Give me! I'll send a team there at once.”

“No, Greg. No police, she said.”

“She? Who is it?” Sherlock asked, grabbing his friend's shoulders.

“She… Garrideb…”

“What?!”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look full of disbelief and terror. This couldn’t be! And the Garridebs hadn't had their parents or close relatives anymore. Neither of them had been married. Anthea had checked it after what had happened to Mycroft.

“She said she was the girlfriend of Howard Garrideb,” John brought out, desperately trying to pull himself together.

Howard. One of the two innocent Garrideb brothers.

“And she knows what happened because he worked in Sherrinford. Someone told her. But why now?” Sherlock was speaking with himself, trying to deduce the situation.

“I don't know. But she has my baby, Sherlock! What if…”

“What does she want? What did she say?”

Neither of them had thought of putting her on speaker.

“She wants…” John broke off, looking to Mycroft helplessly.

He grew cold. The past was catching up with him again. Had he really expected it any different?

“What?!” Sherlock screamed.

Lestrade was just standing next to them, helplessly looking from one to the other.

“She wants you, Sherlock. She'll let them go if you go into the house to her.”

“No.” Mycroft stood up. “He is not going to do that.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock turned to him, his look saying it all.

He had already decided he would do it. Sacrifice himself for John Watson's child and his landlady.

Mycroft wouldn’t have it. “I will not allow that. This is Eurus. Her revenge.”

Sherlock opened his eyes widely. “Oh.”

Mycroft nodded grimly. “It was always her.” The guard who had given his name to the woman who had stabbed him had said he hadn't had any malicious motives to do it. He had just felt sorry for her. Had Eurus told him to say that? Probably yes. And even if she hadn't been behind _this_ attack – she was behind the kidnapping. This was exactly her style.

“But how? She doesn’t…”

“She found a way.” And he remembered all-too-well how she had looked at the camera.

He should have known it. Should have known she wouldn’t just let them be. Sherlock wasn't visiting her anymore. In her opinion he had betrayed her. Turned his back on her. She couldn’t have accepted that. But of course it was more. She simply wasn't finished with her brothers after her game had been destroyed.

And she knew how much Sherlock meant to him, albeit not in which way. Or did she? It didn’t matter, did it? She would kill Sherlock now and destroy them both.

“Not on my watch,” he said, quoting Sherlock when he had tried to protect Mary Watson.

“Give me the address, John,” Lestrade said, sounding firm now. “These people know how to deal with that.”

“I will call the Secret Service,” Mycroft said. “They can work together with your lot, Greg.”

“No!” John screamed. “She said no police or she will kill my child!” His fingers were clenched into a fist, the sinews in his throat bulging.

Sherlock's eyes were wild. “I have to do it, Mycroft.”

“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “No…”

The detective whirled around to John and Greg. “Get out, both of you.”

“Sherlock,” John stammered. “I don't want you to go there but…”

“How much time do we have?”

“An hour. And it's about thirty minutes from here.”

“Okay. Give us five minutes. Go!”

Lestrade grabbed John's shoulder and a moment later, Mycroft and Sherlock were alone.

“I know what you think,” Sherlock said after wrapping his arms around his neck.

Mycroft just stared at him, his hand on his slim hips, his eyes filling with tears.

So were Sherlock's. “You think they are more important to me than you are. You think I don't care what you say or what you want. That I want to run into danger once more to make up for what happened to Mary because I couldn’t shut up.”

“If you go there, you will prove that all true. And I will lose you, Sherlock. She won't let you live.”

“Do you have such little faith in me?”

“What do you want to do?! Overwhelm her? You can bet she has a gun. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have gone with her if she wasn't armed.” And she would make sure Sherlock wouldn’t come in with a weapon himself…

“I know. But I swear to you, I will come out of there. Without a scratch.”

Mycroft could feel his heart break. He couldn’t hinder him. “You can't promise that,” he whispered. Reality sank in. This was it. Sherlock would die and he would not go on living without him. Sherlock had his life in his hands, and he knew it. And still he would do it. Would gamble with his life, with their love, for John Watson's daughter.

It was _always_ about John Watson. In the end, this relationship would always take precedence for Sherlock. Why had he thought anything had changed about that?

“Do what you must,” he said in a flat voice he hardly recognised as his own, his hands letting go of Sherlock's hips, just falling to his sides.

“No, Mycroft!” Sherlock more or less shook him, his eyes wide and piercing. “Don't do that! I need your help. And I need your brain! You must come with me! And I need a bug.”

Mycroft huffed out a desperate laugh. “A bug? So I can hear you die?”

“I will not die. It's not going to happen.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I just had a premonition. And they are always right.” He said it with complete conviction.

“Oh, Sherlock…” Tears were streaming down his cheeks now and then he sobbed when Sherlock kissed him on the mouth, wiping the wetness away with his thumbs.

“We will be alright, Mycroft, brother mine. Just come with me and give me strength.”

And after fighting with himself for half a minute, Mycroft nodded, feeling numb and completely shaken at the same time.

Sherlock kissed him again and then left him to open the door for John and Greg.

John saw at once that Sherlock had talked him into it, and Mycroft hated him for the relieved expression on his face. He knew he was not being fair. If Sherlock's life had been at stage, he would have sacrificed everybody to get him back. And wasn’t that ironic? His life _was_ at stage now and he couldn’t do anything about it.

He watched Sherlock and John exchange a hug and it almost killed him.

A nameless woman would take him away from him. Nameless…

“Did she tell you her name? And is this her address or just a random house?” he barked at John. Every bit of information could help. John let go of Sherlock and turned to him, not looking at all surprised about Mycroft's certainly swollen, red eyes. His own didn’t look any different. “She did and yes, I think it's her house.”

“Give me everything you know. I'll call Anthea.”

He didn’t have any hope but he would do whatever he could.

## *****

A bedraggled house in east London. A shack, frankly spoken. The houses around it ruins or gone completely. Dross everywhere. It was as different from the area Mycroft lived in as it could be – almost like a different country.

Sherlock slowly walked over the dirty street, his hands away from his body. Trying to look composed, cool, calm. He could feel he was being watched. And he had to face the possibility that this woman would just fire at him through the open window – open because the glass was broken.

Anthea had proved to be extremely efficient. They knew all there was to know about Sadie Brockton. Raised in an orphanage, a school dropout, no job training whatsoever - a hopeless case. And the past weeks she had spent in a psychiatric ward – after learning about her boyfriend's death obviously, even though her records said nothing about that. She had freaked out in a supermarket, threatening other customers. And she had never given a reason for it and after calming down, she had been released eventually.

And now she had Rosie and Mrs Hudson and soon she would have Sherlock.

They had met the black government car halfway. Had all gotten into it. Heard all Anthea had found out and was still finding out on her phone about the woman and the house. If all the information would help them in any way was unsure.

They had watched the video feed of Sherrinford. Eurus had been sitting in her cell, motionless, facing away from the camera. Mycroft had spoken to the governor and the man had sworn she had not sent anything to anyone. But Mycroft knew she had. She had found a way under their eyes.

And Sherlock was carrying a bug, one of the newest and the most expensive the government had to offer.

The car had stopped two-hundred metres away from the house. He had had his hand pressed against Mycroft's side all the way. But he had not been able to kiss him goodbye. John had embraced him with eyes full of tears. So had Lestrade. He had called his colleagues, of course he had. But they would come without noise and keep a distance, at least Sherlock hoped so. And they would only come when Sherlock was inside already to not endanger the hostages.

He and Mycroft had exchanged a deep look, and what he had seen in his brother's eyes had shattered his heart. But he didn’t have a choice. He had made a vow. He had failed it already. But he wouldn’t fail Rosie. And he wouldn’t let Mrs Hudson die after all she had done for him. Even without this vow, he couldn’t have acted any differently and he could only hope Mycroft would understand and forgive him.

He had reached the front door now. Knocked. His heart was racing. And he made a step back when the woman he had seen on a picture on her patient file opened the door, pointing a gun at him.

“Strip down,” she rasped. “Everything but the pants.”

## ***

They had gotten out of the car; none of them could have just sat around waiting. And now they were standing around waiting… They could see the house from afar. It was quiet.

Mycroft's eyes were glued to his brother while he was stalking towards the door, and he could feel his tension.

Every ounce of him cried for following him and drag him back into safety. But he kept his place. There was nothing he could do.

And he closed his eyes when Sadie Brockton told Sherlock to take off his clothes.

 _“Alright,”_ he heard Sherlock say as did they all. _“No problem.”_

His voice sounded calm and soothing but Mycroft knew it better. He could hear Sherlock's distress – and fear. And Mycroft? His stomach felt like one big knot, a painfully tight knot.

He listened to the sound of zippers and clothes falling onto the floor. The sound was incredibly clear. It was as if Sherlock was standing right beside him. If only he did…

“The bug's working fine,” Anthea said next to him.

“Yes.” The bug, safely hidden in Sherlock's hair, behind his ear. They could all hear them through the tiny receivers in their ears.

He wondered how the gunshot would sound and if Sherlock would scream or just die silently. And he wondered if he, Mycroft, would just drop dead after that had happened. It wouldn’t matter of course. Nothing would matter anymore.

 _“Okay. Done,”_ Sherlock said, for them, as Mycroft knew.

 _“Yes. Nice body. Howie wasn't nearly as pretty,”_ came the reply. The woman sounded totally untouched.

_“So. You see I'm not armed. Are they okay? The old lady and the baby?”_

A transparent attempt at stressing their harmlessness. As if it was necessary. She didn’t want them. She wanted Sherlock. And now she had him.

_“Go in there. Slowly.”_

Sherlock would look around quickly. Take everything in. Every possibility to overwhelm her and get out.

_“Oh my God, Sherlock! I'm so sorry… so sorry…”_

Mycroft cringed at Mrs Hudson's desperate tone, and he could hear John sob next to him. He couldn’t even look at him, afraid his wrath would take over. A wrath as unfair as it was understandable, he thought almost distractedly.

_“It's okay, Mrs Hudson. It's all good.”_

A tear escaped Mycroft's right eye and rolled down his cheek. He closed his eyes when he felt Anthea's hand on his arm. He didn’t turn to her nor did he move. There was no comfort for him.

_“Are you both okay?”_

_“Yes… Let us go! All of us!”_ Mrs Hudson's voice was shrill.

 _“Let his arm go,”_ came the toneless reply. _“Now. And now go, you and the brat.”_

_“No! I won't leave him here!”_

_“Mrs Hudson. Do what she says. Bring Rosie to her father. He's waiting down the street.”_

_“With the police, huh?”_ The kidnapper didn’t sound upset at all.

_“No. No police.”_

_“Ah, sure. Go now, old woman. You have three seconds.”_

_“Go!”_

_“Sherlock!”_

_“Please… It will all be fine. I promise.”_

Sherlock sounded as if he was crying, and Mycroft almost lost it.

“They are coming out!” John started moving toward the house.

Mycroft could see how he was keeping himself from running with all the self-control he could muster. Mycroft hated him more than ever before. And envied him so much it burnt his heart.

“What the fuck…”

Mycroft looked over to Lestrade, and then turned around. A police car was arriving, as discreetly as they had ordered it. A black, plain car. And behind it, three other cars in quick succession.

The media. Someone had called them in.

No.

Not someone.

He took Anthea's phone and started the feed from Sherrinford again.

Eurus was looking into the camera. She was smiling.

“Oh, God,” Anthea whispered, looking over his shoulder.

“No. God has nothing to do with this.” He had said it without thinking. He didn’t believe in God anyway. Should he start doing it now?

_God, if you do exist – give me back my little brother._

It was pointless… If anyone could get Sherlock out of there, it was Sherlock.

He watched John taking the child from Mrs Hudson's arms, watched her embracing the doctor, watched them both crying. He watched the cops trying to get the media people away from the house; in the meantime three more police cars had arrived. But they were filming, of course. Screaming into their phones. They knew exactly who this was about – the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

A big show for little sister.

 _“Isn't it heart-warming?”_ The voice of the kidnapper made him cringe. She almost sounded like Eurus… The same coldness. But not the intellect – which was their only hope.

 _“Yes,”_ Sherlock whispered. Sounding relieved.

_God, Sherlock. Now start talking yourself out of it._

_You promised._

_You promised!_

## ***

Sherlock had taken it all in. The dirt in the house. Almost no furniture except for a ramshackle table and two rotten chairs. Shabby, neglected, hopeless. Like the woman standing in front of him in what had to be the living room, the room with the broken window they had seen from outside.

Howard, the Garrideb brother with the alcohol problem. And the thirty-seven-year-old girlfriend with the rugged clothes, brown hair that hadn't been washed for weeks, an empty look and rotten teeth. It was hard not to show his disgust.

There had been no chance to check if the back door would be an option. Not for him to escape but for someone to come in. They had discussed it in the car. They had the ground plan of the house but it couldn’t tell them if the door was locked. Which it most certainly was. Anthea had suggested an agent specialised in such skills could open it up and sneak up on them. But Mycroft had dismissed it as too dangerous and Sherlock had agreed. Eurus would have foreseen that. Because they had to be in contact in some way… They would know soon enough…

“I'm sorry that you lost your boyfriend,” he said, meekly. What else should he have said? _'Nice home'? 'Isn't it a beautiful day for a kidnapping'? ´Can I have a cup of tea'?_

She huffed out a laugh. “Lost him! What a great way to say you killed him.”

“I did nothing like that. My sister killed him.”

“Yes, she wrote you would say that…”

Sherlock closed his eyes. What was there to argue?

“Saw you, you and your doctor and this little thing.”

Of course. The goddamn picture of the happy _Baker Street Boys And Their Little Daughter_.

“Knew if I took the girl you would come, like the knight in shining armour.”

“Here I am, in your living room, at your mercy. So what now?”

She laughed, her eyes glistening with craziness. “What do you think? You'll die!”

His thoughts were running wild – deducing, dismissing, analysing his options. All the information Anthea had gathered for them wouldn’t help. He had known it from the start – he had never been supposed to make it out here alive, but hearing it was still devastating. But he wouldn’t die. He had promised it. And he definitely wouldn’t die for Eurus' game and for Eurus' amusement. He idly wondered if she'd had someone smuggle a camera into this house. Was she watching them now? Or would she get to this pleasure later? But of course she was under surveillance, more than ever. They had debated about having her interrogated. Restricted. But what was the point in that? She couldn't go anywhere anymore, so much was sure. She obviously didn’t have to for creating havoc. That was sure as well.

He sounded stern when he spoke. “Will I? Didn’t you hear all the _cars_ arrive? You will never make it out of here alive if you kill me.”

“I don't care! I lost everything already! Look at me! Do you think I _want_ to live like this?!”

## ***

Mycroft stood still while Mrs Hudson was sobbing against his chest. He had lifted his right hand but had stopped before it could touch her. He didn’t say a word. What was there to say? And he had to listen and listen closely.

“Mycroft,” John's voice startled him.

He looked up to the doctor while he was listening to Sherlock talking, telling them where he was. In the living room, the room with the broken window. Couldn’t the doctor shut up? Leave him alone? Oh, he did look shaken. His eyes were wet. But not only from terror. A big part of it was relief, and why shouldn’t it? He'd gotten back what meant the most to him.

“I can't even say…”

“Silence, John. I need to listen.” His voice was as cold as ice, and it made Mrs Hudson sob even harder, soaking his shirt. He hadn't bothered putting on a jacket.

He tensed when he heard Sherlock mention the cars in a slightly different tone. His eyes met Lestrade's. The DI, who had talked to the policemen and –women who were now standing around had not approached him after they had left the limousine, and he looked at him, appearing very discombobulated. He seemed to be completely thrown off the track by events out of his control. He had his people here but he knew they couldn’t just walk to the house and arrest this woman. She had the gun.

It was all indescribably unsettling. The media people, chatting in a distance, kept away from the cops. The helplessness. The pressure. The fear. Mycroft's head was spinning from both concentration and worry.

 _“No,”_ Sherlock said now, answering her question from a few seconds ago. He always took his time to answer, wanting them to keep up _. “I know you don't. But you still have a chance. Let them help you. We will go out together; nobody is going to harm you. And you will be guided to a car and brought somewhere safe.”_

There it was again.

_“Safe?!”_

“What is going on?!”

Mycroft whirled around, almost making Mrs Hudson tumble.

“Ingrid?!”

_“Safe! You idiot! And they say you're clever?!”_

“They said in on the telly, interrupting my show! Came here at once. Visited my sister, five minutes from here. So?!” The red cheeks of the resolute nurse were glowing, her eyes were more piercing than ever before. She mustered him briefly, obviously checking if he hadn't endangered his health…

Was this really happening? How much more surreal could it get? “My… brother… He's in the house… She will kill him…” Saying it made his knees go weak and his head spin even harder.

Sherlock would die. And he would listen to it.

_“No. Maybe I am not that clever.”_

“Pah! Do something about it!” Ingrid thundered.

He knew he had to pull himself together if there was just a tiny chance. “The car, what did he mean with the car?” Mycroft murmured, his brain foggy. Why did it always give up when it counted the most?

_“It's not that comfortable to stand here next to the wall. May I sit down? Here at the fireplace?”_

_“Yes, do it! Be my guest!”_

And finally Mycroft understood. “Anthea, the plan of the house!”

John stared at him, his dark-blue eyes wide. “What… Fuck!” He had gotten it, too.

So had Anthea. “Here, sir.” She showed him the screen once more.

The three of them stared at the living room plan for a few seconds and he shared a look with the doctor, who nodded curtly.

“What?” Lestrade shouted but then he shook his head, understanding. “No, really?!”

“Mrs Hudson - take her.” With this the ex-soldier handed the baby back to her after kissing it on the head.

“What do you want to do?”

But Ingrid nodded grimly. “Yes! Whatever you're planning, do it, blondie!”

And John ran off, up to the first police car that had arrived, which was closer to the house than Mycroft's limousine. Mycroft's heart was close to bursting from fear, terror and excitement. His feet didn’t want to move.

He winced when Ingrid linked arms with him. “Come. You will want to greet him when he comes out, won't you?”

And then the car was started, slowly driving up to the house.

## ***

Sherlock's entire body tensed when he saw the black car slowly approaching from the corner of his eyes.

They had understood. Now he had to play his part.

“Tell me how he was – Howard,” he said in the most casual tone he could muster.

“What do _you_ care about it!” She glowered at him and stroked her greasy hair out of her face.

He frankly didn’t care at all but he put on a mask of sympathy. “I saw him die. I told my sister he was not the one who murdered Evans. But she let him drop into the sea nonetheless.”

“That's a lie!” She brandished the gun impatiently, her eyes flashing with outrage. But at least she didn’t look out of the window.

“It isn't! I think he wanted to tell us something before he fell,” Sherlock lied. The car was driving faster now. Sherlock thanked God for the noise the reporters were making, arguing with the police.

“What? He said something? About me?”

Obviously she had no idea what exactly had happened to the three brothers. Or did she think he could have heard the man through glass?

“Yes, he…”

He didn’t get any further. With an ear-deafening sound, the car crashed into the opposite side of the living room, making the wooden walls and the spare furniture crashing through the small room. Sherlock threw himself onto the ground, Sadie, missed by the car, screamed, the gun fired, and then John was there, slapping the weapon out of her hand before she could shoot someone else than the smoking car, and then he landed a blow that must have been audible outside, even without the bug…

“Fucking witch!” He pulled her up, slapping her bloody face with the flat hand.

“Let her, John. She's out already.”

John looked at him, his eyes softening. “Oh, Sherlock… Look at you… Come… I can't come to you – won't let her go!”

“Not necessary…” Sherlock smirked when three cops, led by Lestrade, entered the destroyed room and handcuffed her after John had handed her over. Lestrade smiled at him, and Sherlock returned it.

John came over to him at once, helping his aching body up, and embraced him.

“Fuck, your clothes…”

Sherlock smiled. “They are used to that meanwhile… Being blown up…” He was pretty sure they were a lost cause.

“Yeah… Looks not much better than our flat after the grenade… Come… Someone's eagerly waiting for you.”

Why had Mycroft not accompanied the cops? But Sherlock knew why. He had been convinced Sherlock would die. He was under shock. Sherlock cringed at the thought that Mycroft had heard the shot and probably believed for a couple of seconds that it had hit him…

John's arm firmly around his waist, he stumbled out of the ruins. Naked except for his pants, trying not to step onto any sharp objects.

He saw Mycroft standing outside, twenty metres away. In the arms of… Ingrid?!

“Let me give you my jacket.” John let him go and stripped it off, and he put it around Sherlock's shoulders. It was too small for him but he was touched by the gesture.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, God, don't thank me! Thank you – you saved my baby…”

Sherlock smiled when he felt John pecking his cheek and the doctor's strong arms around his waist. “And then you saved me, John. We're even.” And then he let him go.

John smiled at him and then playfully shoved him. “Go to your brother.”

As if Sherlock would have needed to be told to do that. He walked over to him, barefooted and with naked legs full of goose bumps. Pictures were taken and videos were done but he couldn’t have cared less. He ignored the questions being shouted at him. All he saw was his brother's face, the disbelieving expression in his eyes, mixed with awe and love and gratitude but, thank God, no wrath or resentment.

And then Mycroft stumbled forward and they met halfway, and Sherlock fell into his arms. A brother hugging a brother after an event like this one – nothing anyone would misjudge even though Sherlock was more naked than dressed. And frankly it absolutely didn’t matter to him.

He shuddered when he felt Mycroft's cold lips on his equally cold cheek.

“You lied,” his brother rasped out, and Sherlock pulled back.

“Did I?”

“Yes. You said you would come out bearing not a scratch.” He gently wiped over Sherlock's eyebrow and showed him the blood.

Sherlock hadn't even noticed he had been cut by a splinter. It could have been much worse, given the amount of debris flying around. “That's nothing.”

“I will have a look at your 'nothing'!”

Both men turned to Nurse Ingrid, and both of them smiled.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, knowing it made no sense to disagree.

“But first of all…” She gave him a slap on the arm, thank God not the arse, and stalked over to Sadie, who was brought to a police car. She was looking deranged and nearly unconscious and her face was bleeding from being hit as well – by a piece of wood and John's fist.

Sherlock watched Ingrid forcing the policemen to stop so she could examine the damage.

“What nonsense are you doing, Missy! It’s a disgrace! Now let me clean you up!” And she fumbled a medical kit out of her huge purse.

“Sherlock!”

He let Mycroft go and turned to Mrs Hudson, still carrying Rosie. He embraced both of them. The little child and the old lady, both meaning so much to him.

***

Mycroft watched his brother fussing with the old woman and the baby. His heartrate was slowly decreasing. He could still hardly believe it; his urge to grab Sherlock and never let him go again was almost overwhelming.

Anthea had been standing aside, and now he heard her taking a call and turning away from everybody.

John Watson stepped to him. “Thank you, Mycroft. For letting him go in. I wished he wouldn’t have had to do it.”

Mycroft nodded. “It was an impossible situation. And we solved it. And you know him – always running into danger.”

“Yes. That's one of the reasons we love him so much.”

Lestrade joined them. Sadie had been driven off now. To a hospital or the Yard, Mycroft didn’t know or care.

The DI nodded, having heard John's words. “Yes. He's crazy but this is our Sherlock.”

He was, Mycroft thought, while he was watching Ingrid disinfecting his brother's wound and putting a small bandage onto it. Sherlock was his but he also belonged to his friends.

He had always known the latter.

It didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t love him. He knew Sherlock had not really had a choice.

Now that it was over he was able to calmly think about it. What would have happened if his brother had refused to do it? If they had sent the cops or the Secret Service instead? Blowing up Eurus' game?

She would have killed the girl. Because this would have destroyed Sherlock and his relationship with Mycroft in the go, not even mentioning the doctor and Mrs Hudson. She would have won anyway. _Eurus_ would have won either way.

But now she hadn't. Thanks to Sherlock's cleverness and John's ruthlessness. And should he resent John for it? Then he would do the same as John had done towards Sherlock because of Mary. Her decision to jump in the way of a bullet to save Sherlock. Sherlock's decision to go into this house to save Rosie and Mrs Hudson. Resentments didn’t help anybody. He and Sherlock were the very best example…

“Sir.”

He turned to Anthea. And he knew what she was going to say. “Eurus?”

“Yes. The new governor went there and told her about it. That your brother is safe and the kidnapper got arrested. She didn’t react. A minute later she broke her own neck in her cell. She ran against the wall head first…”

Mycroft swallowed. In his mind's eye he saw the child she had been – so different from any other. Beautiful but cold to the core. He saw the woman she had become – revengeful, insane, even colder and completely out of her brilliant mind.

He didn’t feel any grief. But he felt regret for a lost life. And he couldn’t deny it – he was deeply and thoroughly relieved.

Finally they were free of her.

“Come,” he said to Sherlock, who had just let go of the old lady and was stroking the baby's head, watched by Ingrid surprisingly fondly. “Let's go home.”

Sherlock smiled at him, his eyes bright as the stars. “Yes. Home.”

And there was no question where 'home' was.

## ***

They hadn't talked a lot with each other since it had happened – there hadn't been an opportunity. Lestrade had taken Sherlock's official testimony as well as Mrs Hudson's; they had all come to Mycroft's house after leaving the street Sherlock didn’t want to see again for as long as he lived. All except for Ingrid, who had gone back to her sister after admonishing Mycroft and Sherlock to kindly take better care of themselves and each other. Sherlock had pecked her on the cheek and she had become red like a tomato.

And then they had taken Mycroft's car home even though it had been rather overcrowded, and he had told them about Eurus' death.

It had made Sherlock feel very weird and he knew his brother shared his emotions. He recalled all the hours he had spent with her playing the violin, thinking he was closing the distance. She had looked more relaxed, more normal. And then she had tried to have him killed, to punish him and Mycroft.

Still he couldn’t hate her. She had been a very unlucky woman. But he was not able to deny that he was relieved that she was dead.

And he wondered how their parents would handle it…

Back in Mycroft's house, Sherlock had finally plucked the bug out of his hair with John's help and slipped into some clothes, wondering if they would find the Belstaff and his shoes in the ruins of the house. Perhaps one of them would have survived – if John hadn't overrun them with the surprisingly lightly damaged car.

Anthea had made a huge pot of hot chocolate for all of them and Mycroft had found walnut biscuits of which Sherlock had eaten the lion's share.

They had sat together for a long while after it. Sherlock next to Mycroft on the couch, their bodies never ceasing to touch one another in one way or the other.

When it had been time for dinner, Lestrade had excused himself, finally needing to go back to the Yard. He had left with Anthea, who had planned to drop by at the office before heading home.

Sherlock had thanked them for their support and he had looked Anthea deep in the eyes before she had gone. He knew how important she had been on this day. And she would always have his brother's back. Sherlock wouldn’t forget any of that. She had given him a warm, knowing smile and she had held his hand a little longer than necessary after shaking it.

Rosie had been deeply asleep in Mrs Hudson's arms. Thank God she wouldn’t remember anything of this awful day. Sadie Brockton had not harmed a hair on her head, or on Mrs Hudson's. She had forced the old lady to get into her car at gunpoint and the brave woman had complied.

“I'd have tried to do something if I had known she was after you,” she had whispered, a blanket around her shoulders. The hot chocolate had brought the colour back into her face but she had still seemed shaken.

“I'm glad you didn’t. You know me. I always find a way.”

“We should go now, let Sherlock recover. And my girl should go to bed soon. And Rosie as well,” John had said with a wink.

“I'll call a cab for you,” Mycroft had offered.

“That would be nice. But before…” John had scratched his head. “You know, Sherlock… Mycroft will go back to work then.”

“Yes,” Sherlock had said, wondering what he was on about.

“So you'll come back.”

“Um, I think so, yes.” Not that he wanted to…

“I thought… Maybe… You know…”

“What he wants to say is that the flat is a bit too small for three people,” Mrs Hudson had said calmly, not sounding shaken at all anymore. “Perhaps you could just come over during the day and go back here when you're through with your cases?”

Sherlock had stared at John. It wasn't a surprise to hear this brilliant idea from Mrs Hudson but John…

“Yes,” the doctor had said, avoiding Sherlock's look. “You know it would be nice to live without skulls in the fridge or ears in my mug…” He had shuddered suspiciously theatrically. “Perhaps you could do such stuff here instead.”

“Thanks a lot,” Mycroft had said drily but of course he had been as excited as Sherlock was.

John had shrugged. “Yeah, well. You're not here during the day, Mycroft. You can drink tea in the office…”

“Well, I wasn't aware I'm such a chore for you, John!” Sherlock had flared for good measure.

John had looked aghast and it had been the last proof Sherlock had needed to be sure that John knew what was going on. How could he? Well, how could he not… Nobody knew him better than John, except for Mycroft.

“No, really not, but…”

“If Mycroft is okay with it, I'll continue to live here,” Sherlock had redeemed him. Perhaps there would be a time to talk about it with John but seeing his embarrassment, he had assumed that now wasn’t this time.

“Well, if you promise to behave…”

He had glared at Mycroft. “Thanks, brother! But yes, I do! No skulls, no experiments with body parts whatsoever! I'll go to the morgue for doing that.”

Molly had called of course, and she had cried on the phone. But Sherlock had told her the same as his other friends – that he would always find a way out. He had not added that he had so much to lose now…

“Well then, guess we can all live with this solution,” John had said sheepishly and Sherlock had felt like hugging him to death.

When the three Baker Street inhabitants had entered the cab, Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged disbelieving but very happy glances.

“John never ceases to surprise me,” Mycroft stated after closing the front door and locking it.  He pulled Sherlock in and kissed him.

“Yes. Never thought he would get it,” Sherlock said when they parted to breathe.

“Never underestimate a goldfish… Come now. Let's have a sandwich and just relax.”

They did exactly this. They settled in front of the telly and watched the news, Sherlock being their star. And for the first time Sherlock, tightly snuggled up against his brother, saw how they looked together in a loving embrace.

“Wow…” he said. “What a pretty couple we are…”

Mycroft burst out laughing next to him.

Sherlock snickered but of course he had meant it completely seriously. “The public knows your face now,” he said, stroking Mycroft's neck.

“Yes. And they know what a great arse you have.”

“Mycroft!”

The older man smiled. “They know what a good-looking brother you have, Sherlock. But they still don't know anything about my position and they will never do.”

“Speaking of positions…”

“Naughty boy.”

“The naughtiest… Mycroft…”

Mycroft turned and kissed him. “Don't say it, Sherlock.”

“I must. I'm sorry. For all I've put you through. I'm so glad you… don't hate me now.”

“Hate you?” Mycroft pressed him close. “I could never hate you.”

“But I did…”

“You did what you had to do. I won't lie – it killed me. I was so terrified. And if you hadn't solved this…”

“You did.”

“John got it just a second later. He's smarter than I thought. Anthea got it, too.”

“All the clever people… I knew I would make it out alive.”

“I'm beginning to respect your premonitions, little brother.”

“Can we… go to bed now?”

“Yes. Shower before?”

“Oh, definitely yes.” Sherlock had washed his feet and refreshed his upper body before getting dressed again but he definitely longed for a hot shower to wash this hideous day off.

## ***

“Here you go.”

Sherlock snuggled into the fluffy white bath towel Mycroft was wrapping around him, drying him off. He had taken care of his brother for the past weeks now and he had loved to do it, but he had to admit it felt great to be pampered as well. His eyebrow-cut was perfectly protected by the waterproof bandage the impeccable Ingrid had applied to him. He would send her flowers.

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

“I will have a quick one, too. Dry off and wait in the bed, yeah?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Oh please! It's twisted enough as it is!”

Sherlock grinned. “Is it though?”

“No. It's like it should be.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He had to kiss him. The towel slid from his body and he made Mycroft's clothes wet when he pressed against him. Mycroft just chuckled and let his hand slide over Sherlock's naked arse.

“Slippery little brother,” he whispered, his breath hot against Sherlock's face, and he lightly slapped Sherlock's backside which made the younger man shiver deep inside.

“Horny little brother,” Sherlock corrected, rubbing his hardening length against his lover's clothed thigh.

“Both, dear. Now let me get ready so we can… do naughty stuff.”

“And celebrate that I'm still alive,” Sherlock put into words what Mycroft had really been about to say.

“You know me too well.”

“Never too well. How are you, Mycroft? Physically, I mean?”

Mycroft had spoken on the phone with a shocked Lady Smallwood and even the PM and had seemed to be touched by their concern, looking calm and humble when they had all come down from their high on adrenaline. He had gone through an emotional rollercoaster beyond comparison on this day and Sherlock loved him even more for having dealt with it so awesomely. For not resenting him for risking his life once more for a Watson, or for John accepting it. For being so smart. For being on his side, for simply being him – the best big brother and the best man Sherlock could have hoped for. But he was afraid the awful events could have affected his brother's newly regained health.

“Good, really. There is nothing like some good old-fashioned fear for your death to make such little remains of injury forgotten.”

“Your sarcasm is disconcerting.”

“It just proves I'm nearly back to my usual self.”

“God forbid!”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows – and then both Holmes brothers started to laugh. They both knew they were still themselves – the snarky, arrogant, sarcastic geniuses, albeit ones that did care. For others and most of all for one another. They would eventually start fighting again. A bit. In a way that would cause no damage as Sherlock was sure. Because their foundation was strong, basically the strongest one imaginable – the connection of family ties and romantic love, entwined and combined to a bond with no escape and no turning back. They were themselves but shaped by love and devotion and, who could deny it, destiny. The long shadow of Sherrinford had tried to strike twice – and it had failed both times. There wouldn’t be a third time.

“Will we…” He broke off, not wanting to spoil the moment.

“Will we what? Be happy forever?” There was no sarcasm in Mycroft's voice now. “I would say after all we went through – yes, definitely.”

“Sweet big brother. But that wasn't what I wanted to ask. I mean, _that_ was clear to me anyway.”

“Oh. I'm glad to hear that. So what else?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Will we go to her funeral?” He really didn’t want to but…

“Oh. Eurus. Yes, of course we will. For our parents,” Mycroft said softly.

“They will be shattered. Because a part of them will be relieved.” It was line-dancing day for their parents and they never watched telly anymore as Mummy found it too depressing and the internet was a foreign concept to them and their friends so it was not surprising that Mycroft and Sherlock hadn't heard from them already about the kidnapping. Or perhaps they _had_ heard about it and dropped dead at this next unforeseen shock…

“You think so?”

“Yes. It was an immense burden on them, knowing they had a daughter who hated them or neglected their entire existence. The daughter they couldn’t heal and hadn't seen for thirty years.”

“Thanks to me…”

“Thanks to her! This was enough proof there was no hope for her, wasn't it?” He did know that his stopping to see her had encouraged her plan of having him killed. But it proved that she had never forgiven Mycroft and so there wouldn’t have been any chance of Sherlock really bonding with her now that Mycroft was so important for him. As important as he should always have been.

Mycroft nodded. “There has never been any hope for her. It's a tragedy.”

“Yes, it is. Wonder what the priest will say about her…”

“Sweet lies, as they always do. I can't call them tonight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock understood that very well. But eventually someone would tell them about the hostage situation and they really should hear it all from them. “You should. Get it over with. Or I will do it, if you prefer.”

“Really? You would?”

“Of course I would.”

“Let's do it together.”

“Yes. Before we do something else together.”

Mycroft gave him a sad smile, knowing what Sherlock was about. They would do the nasty part and then Sherlock would comfort him. With tenderness, kisses, and sex.

“Alright, little brother. Let me finally hop under the shower and then we'll call them and then…”

“I want you in me tonight,” Sherlock said, knowing that was what Mycroft needed. And what _he_ needed.

“Then you shall have me.” Mycroft kissed him on the nose and slapped his arse again. “And now cuddle up in our bed. I won't be long.”

Sherlock beamed at him. _'Our bed'_. Yes. Thanks to John, it would be. The reality sank in while he was walking to the bedroom. He would stay with Mycroft. Go to Baker Street for cases but live here. If anyone asked them about it, they would say what John had said – after living apart from Sherlock, he couldn’t come to terms with Sherlock's mess anymore. And with the baby that was growing every day and would eventually need its own room, 221b was too small for all three of them. So it was just the reasonable decision for Sherlock to move in with his brother who had so much space, and John and Rosie living in Baker Street so the doctor didn’t have to cross the whole city to work with Sherlock plus had a babysitter at hand with Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock wondered what Greg would think about this arrangement. Perhaps nothing at all. Perhaps he would suspect something. But he would never give them away. And neither would Molly. They were his friends, and he knew he could trust them.

He slipped under the blanket, naked as he was, with his curls still damp. It made him feel a little tense that they would call their parents like this, lying in bed together, planning to make love to one another. But he had to admit it also gave him a little thrill…

He closed his eyes and dozed a bit until he heard his brother's steps.

“No pyjamas,” Sherlock mumbled. “I want you naked.”

“You're a tad depraved,” Mycroft said with his trademark raised eyebrows. “Naked in bed, calling our oblivious parents.”

“I hope they are…”

“I don't even want to think of that… I wonder…”

“What?”

“How open we can be in John's presence now… I mean it is quite obvious that he knows it but…”

“Let me talk to him when I see him next time. Mention something harmless, see how he reacts.” He was completely sure John knew about them. But perhaps… he didn’t want to imagine it. Let alone talk about it. Perhaps he had pushed it into the back of his mind. It wouldn't serve to embarrass him.

“Well, I would appreciate if you didn’t tell him about our nightly adventures anyway.”

Sherlock giggled. “Nightly adventures? You mean that we fuck like rabbits, and not only at night if I get a say in this?”

“Sherlock! Behave!” Mycroft winked. “That’s what we'll do?”

“Oh yes. I've contained myself so far but now that you are in the best of health again…”

“Oh dear. I see busy times on the horizon…”

“Yeah. Work all day in the office, work in or on me as soon as you come home and all weekend long…”

“I will be shattered.”

“No, Mycroft.” Sherlock grew serious. “I won't allow you to work yourself into the ground any longer. You heard the PM. Even he thinks you were working way too much.”

“He actually suggested me working from home more, leaving some of the meetings to my colleagues.”

“Yes! You can work here, in your neat little office, and I can blow you while you are reading reports!”

“That sounds lovely… It really does, actually…”

Sherlock grinned. “Do it, brother. Make sure to be there for me for many, many years.”

“How many years will you want me?”

Sherlock kissed his chin. Bit his chin. “Fifty at least…”

“Oh… I will have to order huge amounts of Viagra then.”

“You won't need it. I will be extremely sexy even with eighty.”

“I don't doubt that. Well then… Before your nibbling gets any lower, let's get it over with.”

“Alright. Prepare for tears.”

“At least someone _should_ cry for her.”

“That was a surprisingly sensitive remark, Mycroft.”

“Don't be sarcastic. That’s my job!”

“Okay. Well then. You dial, I'll start with talking.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“No need to thank me. We're in this together. Not only in this bed…”

“Yes. And it makes me very happy.”

“That's my new job. Making you happy.” He had not done it very well on this day. But he hoped there would never be a day like this again.

Mycroft deduced his thoughts. He smiled and pulled Sherlock close. “You are doing a very good job. If life lets you.”

“It better will.”

“Yes.” And then he took his phone and called their parents.

## ***

They were kissing. Rolling around in the generous bed, kissing. Just kissing for minutes, albeit both being naked and aroused. They were ignoring the needs of their bodies for now, needing emotional closeness, transported best through deep, tender snogs.

The phone call had been as devastating as Mycroft had thought. He and Sherlock had alternated talking to both their father and their mother. Mostly their father as Mummy had just broken down after being told that the daughter she had just found back had been taken from her again. Even though of course she had never really gotten her back. She had gotten an unresponsive, catatonic, closed up creature with no emotions for them whatsoever except for contempt perhaps.

But death made this all forgotten. Death left people behind, rewriting the past, wishing they would have done everything differently, longing for a new chance they would never get.

Mycroft and Sherlock had not spared them anything. They had told them Eurus had encouraged someone to kill Sherlock by kidnapping John's child and his old landlady and then killed herself because her murderous plan had been thwarted by a car crashing into the house.

Speaking it out again had let him fully realise how monstrous her actions had really been. She had used this woman's justified albeit misguided grief to get her revenge on them. She had played puppeteer once more and had showered pain over innocent people – her specialty as it seemed. Sadie Brockton had been very lucky that John had not killed her with the car. Or his gun. Or his fist… What if Mrs Hudson had let Rosie fall in her distress? Or what if she had suffered a heart attack, being nearly eighty years old?

No. Eurus' death wasn’t any loss as hard as it sounded. Not even for their parents and one day they would understand that it had been a mercy for them.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He loathed the pain and the terror his sister had poured over them.

So he let himself fall and melt into this non-stop kissing, feeling his living, breathing brother under him, beside him or on top of him, showering him with his love with every stroke of his hands and every pressure of his lips. This was what counted and he would never cease to be stunned that he had gotten it after all this time, after all this hopeless pining and against all odds.

Sherlock was his and no damn human demon or anything else would take him away from him. He wouldn’t have it.

“Mycroft…”

“Yes?” He gently stroked a stray curl out of Sherlock's face.

“I want it…”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, then I shall better prepare you.”

Sherlock grabbed for the lube he had put onto the nightstand but Mycroft shook his head. “Not yet…”

“But…”

“Lift your pretty arse for me, would you?”

“What are you going to do?” Sherlock asked, his eyes huge.

He was still wearing the bandage and it made him look strangely vulnerable. But that didn’t change Mycroft's mind about what he wanted to do now – quite the opposite. He only wondered why he hadn't done that already. But it was more hardcore than anal sex or sucking Sherlock…

“Something I should have done long before.”

“Spank me?!”

Mycroft laughed and it felt so good. “No, silly boy. Legs up!”

Sherlock did it and Mycroft stuffed a pillow under his brother's lush backside. Then he gently pushed his legs up to his stomach.

“Oh!” Sherlock had gotten it.

“Oh indeed. What's one taboo more?”

“Waiting to be broken?”

“Indeed again.” And with this, he grabbed Sherlock's sack carefully to hold it up, lowered his head and started devouring his most intimate flesh, immediately getting lost in his brother's infatuating flavour.

## ***

Sherlock was extremely grateful that he had learned to control his arousal to some extent over the past weeks, otherwise his brother's hot breath against his instantly desperately clenching hole would have been enough to splash his come all over his stomach. And the first touch of his brother's firm, hot, wet tongue made him moan uncontrollably to the ceiling.

Mycroft chuckled but didn’t interrupt his efforts. He teased and probed and lapped with the flat of his tongue and poked with the tip of it, and Sherlock's whole body turned boneless. He could feel his most intimate muscle relax against some especially provoking poke of this magic tongue and then Mycroft's slipped inside him with a body part that was famous for its sharpness and now only spent the highest pleasure Sherlock could imagine.

The thought _'I want to do that to him, too'_ made his eyes roll back in naughty shock and he finally grabbed for the back of Mycroft's head, urging him to go even deeper, doing the most unspeakable and most pleasurable thing to him.

His brother complied with nonchalance and for minutes, Sherlock's was a wiggling wreck under his so, so welcome intrusion, his freshly showered skin covered in sweat already.

“Fuck me now,” he finally brought out, being so close to the edge already but needing his brother deeper inside as his tongue would ever get.

“As you wish, brother mine,” was the excitingly hoarse reply.

Sherlock allowed himself to relax until Mycroft had grabbed and opened the bottle of lube and coated himself up. And he growled when the beautiful long fingers applied a generous amount to his loosened hole.

Mycroft smiled but he didn’t tease him or made any mocking remark about his state.

This was more than sex, even more than making love. This was indeed a way of celebrating the outcome of the recent events, of reassuring each other that they were still together on this earth, that the Holmes brothers had again proved to be the cleverest and that nothing and nobody would ever come between them.

Sherlock was so grateful that Mycroft didn’t resent him for running into danger once more, that he understood that Sherlock could have never let anything happen to Rosie and Mrs Hudson – the cute, innocent and loved baby with all her life ahead of her and the old lady who had always been there for Sherlock and supported their relationship so strongly. And he couldn’t have let this happen to John – losing his daughter after losing his wife already. But of course no loss could be greater than the loss of a child. Well, not for Sherlock. The centre of _his_ universe was this tall, elegant, handsome man who was now slowly pushing inside him, his eyes glued to Sherlock's with an expression full of love. He knew Mycroft would do everything for him and he had proven today that he was willing to go with him through hell whenever it was required.

Sherlock only briefly closed his eyes when he was being filled up completely and Mycroft lowered his weight on him, and he opened them again when Mycroft's lips met his, wanting to see his brother kissing him, with closed eyes and fully devoted.

They kissed in the rhythm of Mycroft's slow but deep strokes and Sherlock had his arms wrapped around the other man's neck and his legs around his waist, bringing them as close together as even possible.

They quietly panted and moaned into each other's mouths but none of them spoke as it was not necessary right now. This was the essence of love; it was sacred and meaningful and a promise for a future full of love and joy and care.

Whatever they would have to face tomorrow or next month or in ten years, they would deal with it - together. Their love for each other and their combined brain power would beat and outsmart anything thrown in their way, one Holmes brother the protector of the other one, led by their sentiment and emotion and respect for each other.

In the end caring was not only an advantage. It was what defined them – as brothers, as lovers and as the men they were. They were the Holmes boys and they were madly in love with one another, now and forever.

The End


End file.
